


The Shiny Tin Knight

by Deep



Category: Travis McGee Series - John D. MacDonald
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, F/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2018-04-25 01:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 43,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4941934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deep/pseuds/Deep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tanned beach bum and tilter at windmills Travis McGee faces up to realizing no one beats Father Time when he gets a call from an old friend in desperate need of his unique salvage services.  But salvage operations, especially the kind Travis has always done, is a young man’s game.  Maybe time has passed him by and that sound through the rigging is Old Man Time laughing at how the tin armor is full of dents and covered in rust.</p>
<p>Maybe the tin suit doesn’t fit Travis any more, but Meyer has brought around the shiny new knight in town.  They say those who can, do, and those who can’t, teach.  But for McGee, the Tin Knight, maybe there is one more good joust left as he teaches the guy with the new lance and tin-can armor about footwork.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shiny Tin Knight

Flyleaf The Shiny Tin Knight  
Tanned beach bum and tilter at windmills Travis McGee faces up to realizing no one beats Father Time when he gets a call from an old friend in desperate need of his unique salvage services. But salvage operations, especially the kind Travis has always done, is a young man’s game. Maybe time has passed him by and that sound through the rigging is Old Man Time laughing at how the tin armor is full of dents and covered in rust.

Maybe the tin suit doesn’t fit Travis any more, but Meyer has brought around the shiny new knight in town. They say those who can, do, and those who can’t, teach. But for McGee, the Tin Knight, maybe there is one more good joust left as he teaches the guy with the new lance and tin-can armor about footwork.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Shiny Tin Knight  
A Travis McGee Fan Fiction Story

by  
The Deep

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The distributor(s) does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

This is intended as a work of fan fiction of the writings of John D. MacDonald, who created not only Travis McGee but wrote many other books. I admire his writing and hope readers of his work feel this does him at least a small measure of justice.

This is not intended to profit from Mr. Macdonald’s work or to impose on his copyrights; it is strictly an exercise on my part to envision what Travis and Meyer might be doing at Bahia Mar today, strictly as a fan! 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1

The greatest athlete of all is Old Man Time, of course. The ultimate marathoner. You see it in the faces of elite athletes when the Old Man starts gaining. Beating out the grounder to first base used to be so easy, but now they’re a half step slow. Or the wide receiver who can’t get the separation from the DB’s anymore, and their puzzled look, because it used to be so easy.  
The smart ones substitute experience for being not quite as quick and nimble as they used to be, and keep playing for a while. But the Old Man never tires, always keeping to the same relentless, steady pace while people slow down eventually.  
I’d always considered myself an athlete, though my on-field playing days were long ago. In my line of doing salvage work whenever my retirement-in-chunks was interrupted, staying in shape and a little ahead of Old Man Time was a necessity.  
It was February second, the evening of the last bit of warmish weather before Lauderdale had the traditional mid-winter cold snap push through, that I heard the laughing from the Green Ripper, constant companion to Old Man Time. It happens like that to people like me, I think. Maybe it happens to everybody. That look was probably on my face, like the guy that just had the coach tell him to come to the office and bring his playbook.

Back in December, between Christmas and New Year’s Eve, Meyer had dropped by one evening with a young guy in tow, who he introduced as Trey MacLeod, pronounced McCloud.  
Meyer said, “Trey, this is Travis McGee, my best friend for too many years to count. Travis, I told Trey you could probably tell him more about boats than anyone around here. He leased the DebbyK for six months and is thinking about buying her, or another boat, if he likes living on one enough.”  
I vaguely remembered the face. Meyer had talked to me in September about selling the Thorstein Veblen. After all those decades as a bachelor, he married a lady friend of his who had come down to Lauderdale to go cruising with him a number of times over the last decade and a half. He and Mary had celebrated their sixth anniversary a couple of weeks before.  
“Travis, Mary and I have been talking. I’m not getting around all that well, and Mary says she is feeling kind of stiff some days. If I fell or my hip went out at the wrong time, like on one of the ladders, I doubt she could get me on my feet by herself. I’m thinking about selling the Veblen and moving to an assisted care facility.”  
Discombobulated and instantly depressed, I said, “Do you feel like anything is wrong right now? You know if anything happens you or Mary can call me any time and I’ll be there in under a minute. EMT’s are pretty good about getting here fast.”  
Meyer had a hip replacement eight years ago. Lately, the old bear had been gimpy in his walking and hibernating more than he ever had, he and Mary usually tucked in by dark and not dropping by as much as they once did.  
“No, nothing immediate,” Meyer said. “I just don’t want to leave it until too late. There’s a couple of nice places where we can have a private apartment and live like normal people, then if we need it they can add all sorts of assistance, even some medical assistance, as long as a person isn’t really at the point of a nursing home.”  
There it was, said out loud, our biggest fear. The nursing home. The worst way to end living. I’d never thought I’d have to worry about it, but then I’d never thought I’d live to see my fiftieth birthday.  
With my daughter, Jean Killian, living about three miles away and checking in on me every two or three days, way down deep I had thought I could put off any such fears myself. I wasn’t in my second childhood yet, in spite of some people saying I never left it the first time. Jean thought she was clever, but it was obvious she thought it was her responsibility to look after me.  
So Meyer had put the Veblen up for sale, and I remembered the face of a young man who had looked at it, just before Thanksgiving, but had been more interested in renting than buying. I remembered Meyer saying the two of them had hit it off and he invited the guy over for dinner several nights. As I remembered from subsequent comments, he and Meyer stayed up till the wee hours arguing economics and politics, which are one and the same, in my experience.  
Trey had been nothing but pleasant and bright and respectful, and I was for some reason I couldn’t name, just a little unsettled by him.  
That first night they came by after Trey moved onto F-slip, he said, “I’m a complete novice at anything about boats. I’m from Ohio and was never around them, but always thought I’d like to live at the beach and have a boat. Something about being able to decide to cast off and go wherever I want whenever I want. So I rented the DebbyK to see how it really is and if I like it.”  
The DebbyK was on the other side of the F-pier from the Busted Flush and five slips down from my Slip F-18. It’s a Sea Ray 52 Sedan Bridge, with Diesel Cummins engine. When I looked at it the next day, the engine was rated at 670 horsepower and had 500 gallon fuel tanks. Water tanks were 140 gallons, holding tanks 68 gallons, if I remember right. Three staterooms, a master, a double, and one with twin bunks.  
Overall, a lot of boat for someone who never had a rowboat before. The owner was a couple I knew reasonably well, given it was Dr. Ed Donovan and his wife Belinda, and they came down about five or six times a year, often just for a long weekend. I had them in my e-mail and exchanged notes every few weeks.  
Dr. Ed was an oncologist in Atlanta and had just retired. He and Belinda loved the water; it was his way to de-stress. Their plan was to use DebbyK, named after his daughter, as a part-year home. They were scheduled to come down six weeks after his official retirement for a three or four month stay. The dock office, Meyer, and I all had keys to their boat, and I did some minimal cleaning and maintenance and stocked enough groceries they would have something for a light dinner and breakfast without having to go to the grocery the first ten minutes after they arrived.  
The night before they intended to leave from Atlanta, Belinda said she wasn’t feeling well and was going to take a nap. Ed found her half an hour later, minutes after she had a stroke. Thanks to his medical training and speed of reaction, Belinda survived and would probably recover to eighty or ninety percent of normal.  
But it was likely a process of a year, or even three years, and Ed called me after we went back and forth on e-mails a few times.  
Ed had said, “Trav, we planned on this practically all our married life. We kind of had a deal. I’d work my ass off, Belinda would take care of the house and mostly take care of the kids, because it’s tough when I’m out of the house most mornings at five-thirty and then in the office and then late rounds and keeping up on all the literature and all the other stuff. You probably know how it is, you have clients depend on you like patients depend on me.  
We were going to try to have maybe four or five months a year on the boat. We both were looking forward to just the time for us. Belinda looks better to me than the day I married her, it was going to be like newlyweds. We put everything off for decades and planned on having twenty or thirty years to do what we wanted.  
If Belinda does recover enough soon to say she wants to still do it, I’ll be scared to death. What if we’re making the passage to Bimini or something and she has another stroke? Or what if I do? Surviving something like that without major permanent damage depends on getting the right treatment, usually in less than three hours. If I’m selfish and say let’s kick around the islands and something like that happens, how can I live with knowing Belinda could have been okay if I hadn’t just wanted to show I could sail to Antigua?”  
Ed called the broker the next day, and DebbyK went on the market two weeks after the Veblen.

When Meyer and Trey left that night, Trey had been polite and friendly, making a comment I’m sure he thought was a compliment.  
“I appreciate you talking to me. I mean, with what you’ve done here you must have put hundreds of hours into it. The retro look is really cool, it looks like a bachelor pad out of a 1960’s Doris Day movie. Everything looks authentic and must have taken a ton of work to find everything to get those little details.”  
No, actually it was all original. I wanted to get a little mad, but lying awake in the middle of the night I had to come to grips with things. No, I didn’t really have people who relied on me like Dr. Ed. Actually, no one relied on me. Mentally I had a list of maybe seventy-five tasks that the Flush needed, and I’d been telling myself I was mostly up on maintenance and would get around to things sometime soon.  
I realized the style of the boat I called home was stuck in a time warp. I hadn’t done a real update since… maybe 1975 or 1977? The huge master tub hadn’t been used in ages. The finish was dull and scratched. It was a good analogy for me. Dull, scratched, unused, a relic.  
My life had been self-centered, pretending disdain for convention and claiming I was different and wouldn’t participate with the humdrum. I would tilt at windmills and wear my tin-can armor and fight evil giants that people who lived in ranch houses and went to regular jobs and were married couldn’t, or wouldn’t, fight.  
Meyer had talked about the cost of an assisted living apartment, and of a nursing home, if ever needed. I told myself I didn’t have a lot of expenses, but when I counted it up the total wasn’t much less than a medium priced and depressing bed in a semi-private room in a nursing home. Dock fees were ridiculous compared to what it used to be, as much as a mortgage. Or more. But you eventually paid off a mortgage while dock fees went on forever.  
I’d always taken my retirement as I could afford it, being the “salvage company” of last resort and taking fifty percent of anything recovered. I realized ambulance chasing attorneys often wound up with more than that percentage of their client’s settlements. I had chosen the wrong profession. Or maybe I should recover what attorneys had stolen from unsophisticated clients.  
Thinking back, three years ago had been the last big recovery, almost a million five. Meyer had helped and received a third of my fifty percent; $492,000 to me, $246,000 to Meyer.  
A little over half of that was still in the waterproof box hidden between the hulls. The rest had been frittered away and I couldn’t tell you where it had gone to save my life. None of it had been spent on the Flush.  
Other than that, there had been two jobs. I’d helped an old client who had a grandson who was a doper and was helping himself to part of the cash receipts of grandpa’s business.  
Another old client had referred a friend of theirs who had a problem with chronic break-ins and robberies at their retail store. Police, surveillance cameras, and alarms had yielded nothing. Less than a week of digging a little and watching showed why. Four employees had conspired to steal easily-sold merchandise. It hadn’t taken but very little threat of physical intimidation for the weak link to spill his guts.  
The two jobs together had netted me a little under $20,000. Sitting in the pilot’s chair on the bridge as the sky lightened, sipping the Blue Mountain coffee, I finally admitted to myself what a chicken I was.  
I’d kidded myself that whatever was in my hidey-hole box would be more than enough to take care of me if the worst happened and I had a slow slide to the Big Sleep. But the false bravado had me telling myself there would be more big salvage jobs, right up until I was a little too slow and the Green Ripper a little too fast. So eat, drink, and spend, because tomorrow I might die, which was better than the slow death of an assisted living apartment.  
 

Chapter 2

The afternoon after meeting Trey, I walked to the DebbyK and went over the boat with him, teaching him basic controls and electronics and boating etiquette. At some point you have to actually take the controls and learn how to take her out, but at least Trey might remember some of what we had talked about.  
We started a list of maintenance needed, and a supplemental list of things Trey would change if he wound up buying the boat. In all honesty, both lists combined were shorter than what I needed to do to my floating home.  
The afternoon was warm enough nearly everyone was in shorts, and the holidays had a lot of people out and about instead of at work or schools. The beach bunnies were out and cruising the docks in force, looking at the boats as an excuse to look for boys.  
After having been on hands and knees examining a bubbled-up soft spot in the deck in the bow, I was stretching when a group of five college-age girls caught my eye as they looked and giggled at me, I thought. One gave a little wave and said “hello” loud enough to be easily heard.  
Maybe all men are as vain as me, mentally still thinking of ourselves as twenty-five. For a second, I seriously thought they were looking and waving at me. Over the years, I’d had enough girls do something similar as an indication they were interested enough to want me to strike up a conversation. Depending on my mood and how virtuous or not I was at the moment, many of those tanned and sandy little bottoms had seen the master stateroom of the Busted Flush.  
All were fondly remembered, even the ones I didn’t specifically remember now. At the least, each had been a temporary crossing and confirmation of two healthy people who found something valuable about the other, even if was just a few hours tucked away from everyone else in the world. With the help of chemical wonders and convenient pharmacies, I’d continued to strike up those conversations.  
The next second I realized two things. For at least the last nine or ten years, all those chickies seeing the big bed in the stateroom had been past their fiftieth birthday, at a minimum. Any twenty-something girl would probably say, “Eeeooooooww, old person smell!” if I got within five feet and acted like I was a stalker.  
Second, it was obvious the giggles and wave were for Trey, who grinned and waved back, but didn’t seem inclined to do anything more.  
Duh, I was slow. Trey was in his early thirties, dark hair, eyes ten shades darker blue the sky, five or six inches shorter than my six foot three, and distinct muscle definition in arms and legs. He had demonstrated significant strength the way he had casually heaved up engine hatch covers and lifted a heavy tool box from its place in the engine well up to deck level, almost over his head.  
A second girl tried striking up a conversation and fished for an invitation to come aboard and see the pretty boat. Suggestive in dress and language would be an appropriate description. When Trey made it obvious he wasn’t following up on the opening, the group moved on.  
I said, “Pretty girls.”  
Trey said, “Yeah, pretty cute, all of them. That one in particular was smoking.”  
I asked, “Not interested?”  
He said, “Not at the moment. Smoking hot girls usually have daddy issues. Smoking hot girls should never fix their daddy issues; it’s what makes them smoking. Hey thanks for the lesson and patience. How about I buy dinner?”  
I begged off, taking a rain check. Walking back to the Flush, I was unreasonably peeved again from a comment that was too true. Jean and I had gone through years of trying to form a father-daughter relationship, much of it rocky.  
Considering I didn’t know I had a daughter until she was just shy of seventeen and stalking me with years of pent-up anger, the ups and downs were understandable. Her mother, Puss Killian, was the woman who was the number one regret of my life.  
Jean is about the age now that Puss was when we met. We didn’t have long together, and I had no idea what I’d said wrong when she just left with no explanation until I got the letter months later.  
Puss had inoperable brain cancer and was married, which I hadn’t known. When she received the diagnosis, she had panicked and left her husband without a word. I’d come across her on the beach just after she stepped on a sea urchin, and first aid turned into the love of my life.  
Months later, I received the letter that explained about the cancer, which I also had not known a thing about. Puss had decided she was being selfish to withhold the months she had left from her husband. What Puss hadn’t put in the letter was she was pregnant with our daughter.  
Puss fought the cancer until delivering, dying the next day. Jean was raised with stories of what a bastard I was who had rejected Puss and her. I found out I was a father when I discovered who had been leaving pipe cleaners twisted into little cat figures on my boat.  
Jean fit the description of hot girl with daddy issues. All gangly legs as a teenager, she had grown into statuesque femininity that was comfortable with the boys. Coarse blonde hair like mine, though streaked with reddish highlights from Puss, instead of light gray like mine is these days. Genes from me gave her eyes that were a pale silver like the color of old rare coins. A girl grown into a woman that was striking rather than beautiful, that worked with horses and good with a truck or boat or fishing rod. First boys, now men, fell over themselves around her.  
We had gone through multiple phases of rebellion, including promiscuity. During any discussions, or arguments I should say, my own lack of being able to establish enduring relationships had been thrown in my face. I hadn’t had any defense because it was true I was essentially the same, with my claims of having been judicious in most of my sexual liaisons sounding as lame as they were.  
I had paid for her college, eventually her graduating from Butler, then vet school at Auburn. Jean is an equine veterinarian and works with a practice that covers most of Florida. She settled at Ft. Lauderdale to be close to me, but travels quite a bit for work.  
New Year’s Eve was a small party on the Busted Flush, sixteen of us all together. The only two under fifty were Jean and Trey. During the evening I noticed Meyer making a point of gently bringing the two young people together, both physically and in conversational gambits. I made a mental note to chastise Meyer next chance I had.  
One of the conversational side trails was talking about the two-day New Year’s party we used to hold at Bahia Mar Marina. Meyer was reminiscing, the best storyteller of the three of us who had been there.  
Meyer was describing what had been the place to be in Lauderdale back then. “The Bama Gal had just arrived here and I think the party around the Alabama Tiger started the next day. I’m sure it holds the record for the longest continuous party in history, it didn’t end until the Tiger passed away.”  
Jean said, “And I thought Dad held the record for the longest party, one lifetime and still going.”  
She got a laugh from everybody, but there was a cold, all too true edge to it. I got it, and I think a few of the others did, too.  
Continuing, Meyer said, “That first year we decided to have a big dock party, and friends told friends who told friends. We had decided on starting the party on New Year’s Eve about four o’clock, and it turned into all night, most of us from having a couple drinks in us to the predictable passed out drunks. It started with about three hundred people and grew to probably over a thousand, then some went home, some came back, and we rolled into morning drinking and making scrambled eggs on the grills.”  
Joe Rykler, who had been there, said, “Yeah, drunks love eggs. I think I threw up after my first breakfast and came back and ate some more and kept drinking and partying. God, if I drank like that today I’d die.”  
We all laughed in agreement.  
Meyer said, “Afternoon of New Year’s Day we decided on an impromptu talent show. The big party started breaking up after maybe ten arrests on drunk and disorderly and tapered off to just a continuous party at the Bama Gal. The next year people started talking about what we would do for New Year’s before Thanksgiving even arrived. A couple of the girls started organizing things and I think we charged five dollars admission to cover all the beer and food.”  
Trey asked, “How big was that party?”  
Meyer said, “I don’t remember for sure, seems like the girls sold about 2,500 tickets that year. By the last year, I think the sixth year, it was like eight-thousand people. We had a stage set up on one of the boats for the talent show, speaker system, everything. Man, I miss those days. If it wasn’t for the murder we might still be holding them.”  
Trey asked, “What happened?”  
I knew Meyer didn’t want to talk about it, so I told the story. “One of the guys was Jack Engly, who was a fishing boat captain, had his own boat. Jack had taken a trip up to North Carolina and surprised us bringing back a child bride half his age. He had fallen in love with a little white trash over-sexed thing that we all knew was trouble as soon as we saw her.  
Jack was in love and blind to any faults. He was also a jealous man and physically somebody you did not want to mess with. He and I got into a, luckily, good natured fight at one of those parties. I was sore for a month.”  
Joe laughed and said, “That’s about what Jack said. It took what, over an hour for him to whip you to the point you yelled uncle?”   
I said, “Don’t know, it felt like a week. I’m glad to know he hurt, too. Anyway, Judy Ann, the teenage wife, started screwing around within a couple months, and it wasn’t a well-kept secret. We all figured Jack would eventually find out and beat the hell out of Judy Ann and whoever the guy was, both. That was kind of what happened.”  
Taking a sip, I relished the juniper finish of Plymouth gin, over half-melted ice cubes. I was feeling nostalgic and just slightly depressed.   
“There was a guy around who most of us thought was basically a crook. Name of Rex Rigsby, or at least that was the name he used. Had a Bahamian ketch. Seems like it was named Angel, but I might not remember right.  
Rex lived off of wealthy women and treated them rough. He was a professional houseguest, and one of the women he met in the Bahama’s, I think, showed up begging him to act like he cared about her, keep the money but say he at least hadn’t just used her like a fool and a whore.  
Rex laughed at her and pushed her down. Maybe a dozen people saw it. The woman staggered off to a cheap motel down the beach that got torn down twenty years ago. The housekeeper found her, suicide on sleeping pills.”  
Joe said, “Yeah, and the woman’s husband showed up about that October, using a different name, I think called himself Leo Rice. Damned if I can even remember his real name. He was a big corporate exec up north and blamed himself for his wife’s death. The story I heard was he worked like a hundred hours a week, the wife felt neglected, and told him she was going on a trip as a trial separation. He thought it was best to let her get it out of her system, and that she would come back after a few weeks. Plus he had a big international deal cooking. The next he heard was from the police to come claim the body.”  
I picked back up and said, “Yeah, Leo didn’t know anything about a boat. He had bought an old Higgins Sedan piece of junk up in Jacksonville and came down the Intercostal. He had tried to get in shape by buying a shovel and digging holes on the beach. He would dig holes until lunchtime, and then fill them back in all afternoon. He planned to find Rex and beat him up, at the least. When they fought it took about thirty seconds for Rex to knock the crap out of Leo.”  
Trey asked, “So one murdered the other at the party?”  
I said, “No, not that, and actually it wasn’t a murder, technically. During the talent show on New Year’s Day, Rex was nailing Judy Ann on the Angel, which was docked next to Jack’s boat, thinking Jack was passed out up on shore near the tent that was set up with the food and bars. Judy Ann was a screamer, sounded like a hound dog howling whenever she was having sex. Half the marina knew when she was getting laid.”  
Meyer said, “Unfortunately, Judy Ann was in full voice in the middle of a yell just as the girl singing on the stage kicked the amp cord loose. And Jack had woken up and was looking for Judy Ann.”  
Everyone who hadn’t been there was tense, imagining what had happened. Those of us who had seen it still wished we hadn’t.  
Jean asked, “What happened?”  
I said, “When Jack heard Judy Ann, he moved faster than anyone I’ve ever seen. It took me a few seconds to realize what was happening; I was sniggering about it like everyone who knew it was Judy Ann’s mating call. Joe and I realized it too late and we got to his boat just as Jack jumped on deck of the Angel.  
He kept a short fish gaff on deck and had grabbed it as he ran by, then jumped on board the Angel. Joe was yelling at him to stop, but I don’t think he even heard. Jack came back on deck, had Rex on the end of the gaff, his feet off the deck, shorts around his ankles, the gaff through Rex’s throat and Jack holding the gaff by one hand. He tossed him on the pier like he would a fish onto the deck.”  
It was quiet until Mary asked, “Did Jack go to prison?”  
I said, “No, actually he got off, almost got a citizenship award. Me and about two hundred people on the docks gave statements that when the sound system suddenly cut off, Jack heard his wife being raped and yelling for help. He had gone to her rescue and reacted to Rex assaulting her. Frankly, the world was a better place without Rex, if Jack hadn’t killed him someone else surely would have at some point.”  
Mary asked, “So he wasn’t even charged? What about the white trash wife?”  
Joe said, “After the police said there wasn’t any charge and shook his hand, Jack took out his boat, Judy’s Luck, with Judy Ann on it. Trav and I took the little speedboat Trav used to have when we realized it, but we were too late again. Jack anchored about a thousand yards out. When we got close, we saw him taking a strap to Judy Ann’s bare ass. He wore her out, but quit about when we got close. I guess it was Judy Ann’s luck he didn’t kill her, too. These days, he would be doing time for domestic assault.”  
I finished the bit of local history. “I guess it was what Judy Ann needed. She straightened up. They bought a house a few blocks in and had five kids. Jack passed away I think three years ago. Judy is still in the house and has about fifteen grandkids. Who needs some barbecued shrimp?”  
The mood had turned way too somber and we all tried to lighten up, but I’ve had better New Year Eve’s.  
By half-past midnight, people started leaving. At one o’clock, Jean said she was going home and I objected because of the three drinks she had downed. Trey, who I noticed had imbibed about half of one cocktail, said he would drive her home and walk back, claiming it was a nice night and he hadn’t exercised in a few days.  
I think Jean had planned on Trey offering and was intending he not walk back tonight. She knew I disapproved, but I didn’t really have grounds to object. She’s a grown woman, and sometimes fathers don’t have a say in things.  
Everybody left as a group, it took me twelve minutes to clean up, and I went to the pilot house with the last of my third glass of Plymouth and a pot of Blue Mountain, windows open, stereo turned low on the Boston Pops doing The Planets.  
I watched Trey board DebbyK, cautiously, at ten minutes after two. His few lights went out in order one after another, a few minutes later. I watched daybreak, the reflection off the water like dull lead, like my mood to start the year, as I rinsed the pot and mug and went to bed for two hours sleep.  
 

 

Chapter 3

The afternoon of New Year’s Day, Meyer walked over, just barely a trace of gimpiness from the hip, and we were sitting in the salon when he brought up the subject. “What do you think of Trey MacLeod?”  
I took my time answering while paying an inordinate amount of attention to the Cubano sandwich coming off the panini press.  
“He seems like a nice guy. Doesn’t know much about boats, but is learning quick,” I said.  
Sliding the sandwich on the plate, I pulled it apart to slather on the grainy mustard Meyer and I both like instead of the traditional yellow mustard.  
Meyer poured us both drinks and set out small plates and napkins. I cut the sandwich in half, carried it to the table, slid a half onto each plate and slid into the booth.  
I said, “Everything I can tell is he is perfectly normal, except has some money, obviously. Everybody seems to like him.”  
Meyer was working on a bite of the Cubano and letting me take my time. I’ve seen him use the technique before, getting people to open up about subjects they intended to keep to themselves. Coupled with being like a teddy bear or favorite uncle, people of all kinds are telling him their most private thoughts five minutes after meeting him.  
After a bite myself and a sip of the pilsner, I said, “And for some reason, he makes me a little uneasy. Have you noticed anything?”  
Meyer dabbed at a speck of mustard on the corner of his lips and asked, “What kinds of things?”  
Considering, I ticked off, “He’s always aware of his surroundings and the position of everyone. He picks seats with a wall at his back. He’s physically in the kind of shape you usually only see in athletes his age. Reflexes are extraordinary. Women notice him and give off signals, but I haven’t seen him show anything but polite interest. And on the DebbyK he has a shotgun in spring clips on the flying bridge and I think a handgun in a cabinet drawer.  
Anything that could be a discussion about his personal life or past gets turned into something else without any substantive answer. I want to like him, but I don’t think I do, at least not until I have some answers.”  
Meyer had finished and wiped his hands, half his beer gone. Just looking at me was making me cross, like I was a dullard student who hadn’t read the assignment.   
I asked, “So, what do you think?” A bit more snappish than I’d meant.  
Leaning back, Meyer’s little blue eyes were sharp, locked on me, as he said, “Oh, I’ve noticed all that except the guns. I’m not surprised by them, I expected something like that. He’s extremely bright and not at all boring, except when he wants to give that impression. And for a supply side advocate, he’s what I might term as possibly brilliant. You don’t see the similarities?”  
I asked, “What similarities?”  
Getting the little I’ve-got-one-up-on-you and know something you don’t smile, Meyer said, “You don’t get that you’re seeing yourself? I mean not you, now, but you thirty-odd years ago. These days you’ve gotten as almost as old and boring as me. And I guess if you don’t like Trey that means you don’t like yourself.”  
I snorted like a horse and said, “Hunh, I think you’ve gone senile. I’m not that boring yet. And stop trying to get Trey and Jean together.”  
Meyer laughed at me and said, “Oh, too late for that. There is obviously an attraction there, but the question is if there is just a flicker or something more. Trey is reluctant to form attachments, it seems. Sound familiar? And you are as boring as me these days. You haven’t been interesting for a year or two.”  
I said, “Speak for yourself. I’m just as right as rain.”  
We both knew I was lying.  
A sigh before Meyer tilted his glass toward me for a refill and talked while I poured.  
“Travis, we long since faced the fact we are both incomplete human beings. Maybe most people are, it shows in different ways, I think. With us, living our lives on our own silly terms of nonconformity is just part of that. Another big part is our long-term refusal to form anything except transient relationships with a woman. Or at least until I committed to marrying Mary.”  
“So you’re now less incomplete than me because you decided to finally get married when you were a hundred and fifty?”   
I was a little petulant with the edge to my voice, because I knew it was true.  
“Oh, certainly,” said Meyer. “I came to grips with my issues of individualism and my silly little stand against the stupidity of society and realized I am more complete and a better person as half of a marital unit with Mary. She brings out more positive attributes in me than I could by myself, sort of like polishing a diamond. I just thought of it that way—I was a diamond in the rough. I couldn’t describe myself better.”  
His smirkiness was very un-Meyer like, but he had just amused himself, I could tell.  
“You, on the other hand, Trav, have never overcome those self-imposed barriers. I thought you were going to years ago with Puss Killian, and your life would have been immeasurably different. I was thinking about Puss the other day when I saw Jean on the dock. It brought me to tears remembering the vibrancy and intelligence of that woman, embracing my stupid Meyer’s Law and the random cruelty of genetic luck. I’ve often wondered if she could have survived with the technology of today.”  
Meyer looked almost ready to cry again.  
I didn’t say anything because I’ve thought the same thing a thousand times a year, and it brings me to tears if I dwell on it.  
After draining the last of the beer in the glass, Meyer said, “And I thought maybe life had given you another chance with Gretel Howard. I’ve often wondered if your Green Ripper used her as a tool to get you. Does Death know it’s time to collect his harvest well in advance, like a train schedule? Or does God give him immediate orders, like calling for a sandwich delivery, souls delivered so fast they freak? Does the Ripper have free will, or plot about some souls he particularly wants to reap earlier than he would if he didn’t plot against them? I wonder about weird things too much.”  
Meyer went to the Veblen somewhat down, I think, while I spent the rest of the day restless and unreasonably mad. With about ninety minutes of daylight left, I changed to exercise clothes and tried to pretend I was running, something I hadn’t done in maybe two years or more, I realized.  
Walking long stretches between my hundred yard efforts at something more than a stroll, I resolved to learn more about Trey MacLeod and watch him more than just in passing.  
Back on the Flush I cleaned up and slipped on the old gray cashmere sweater over just a pocket tee shirt. I dozed off on the couch during the first quarter of a bad football game, waking in time to see Ole Miss beat Wisconsin by two touchdowns in a rain-soaked It Doesn’t Matter Bowl.   
The insomnia and Blue Mountain kept me awake while I used my iPad on the bridge. After paying $99.95 by credit card for the deluxe records search, I perused a scanty amount of boring and uninformative public records about one Trey MacLeod, born in Bridgeport, Ohio.  
I went to bed about three a.m., having noted Trey had returned near midnight from what had apparently been a run where I’m sure he covered more than my attempted mile and a half. The only thing of real interest was how he had taken his time, apparently cooling down, before climbing the boarding ladder to the DebbyK. My impression was he was cautious about watching for signs of anyone in the marina showing any interest in him, or if anyone showed indications of being on board.  
 

 

Chapter 4  
January seemed to drag at the time, but in retrospect it was gone in the blink of an eye. Weather was slightly unseasonably warm, which helped in my New Year’s Resolution to get my head out of my backside and start on my to-do list of maintenance on the Flush and Munequita. I had neglected the little doll of a boat, partly from laziness and mostly from the rate at which the twin engines sucked ridiculously overpriced fuel.  
The goal was to do something every day. Insomnia caused my day to start late, but progress was like a glacier calving mini-icebergs. Small jobs, completed or in various states of progress, could be seen floating around random spots of my houseboat homestead as January progressed.  
Some days had Meyer stopping by, mainly sitting and offering unhelpful commentary on my variety of special purpose gadgets, like my grommet-seating tool, and how I was like the guy in the old Midas commercial; not as fast as I used to be. Trey MacLeod frequently stopped by and offered a hand, which I accepted since additional raw muscle was useful. Better him having raw and scrapped knuckles from frozen bolts than me.  
Meyer and Trey good-naturedly argued economics, which always included politics and always bored me to death. One night I joined the two of them and Mary on board the beamy Veblen for dinner of Meyer’s ridiculously hot chili. Afterwards, Mary and I spent time sorting through her CD collection of mostly Big Band and early jazz recordings, helping her transfer it to her multiple electronic devices that we can’t live without.  
Trey and Meyer were playing chess, and I was half-listening to Trey say, “I charted some things for you. I went back to 1900 and charted every example of deficit spending I could find, starting with Teddy Roosevelt, in every country I could find data. Keynesian Economics before it was called Keynesian.”  
Meyer said, “So you’ve seen the light and are ready to renounce your heathen supply side fantasies?”  
Trey said, “Actually, I overlaid another graph of how the economy of each country performed. In every case but one, that country had a subsequent and immediate downturn in direct proportion to how big of the way they embraced the Keynesian fantasy. Want to guess who was the one exception?”  
Meyer must have made a move and said, “Check,” before a long pause when he finally asked, “Sweden?”  
Trey said, “If I was smart I’d concede. Nope, Nazi Germany. Not what I would call the poster child for successful policies if it takes starting a world war to make things work.”  
By the time I left, my impression was Meyer was about to win two out of three chess games, but was on the defensive as far as economic theories. Mentally, I made a note to ride him about being schooled in his own field by a kid less than half his age. 

Most evenings I dozed off on the couch early, slept a couple of hours, then was awake till dawn brought rosy light or, more often, reflection off the water like off dirty tin armor. But my nights weren’t wasted.  
Trey also kept a nocturnal schedule. He usually disappeared down the docks after eleven at night, wearing exercise clothes. He had been running and exercising in the daytime, but changed his habits after the first week of January.  
Jean had popped in one morning before leaving for a two day call near Ocala. On the bridge, she picked up the old 7x50 binoculars and scanned the dock instead of out in the harbor. She gave a little shiver and I heard, “Ooooouuuuu,” in a low voice.  
Looking around, I saw Trey doing pull-ups on a bar he had installed on the overhead sheltering the open deck right behind the bridge of the DebbyK. No shirt, gym shorts, and he presently switched to dumbbells, doing curls. Perusing the surrounding slips, one could identify three women with binoculars directed in his direction.  
Apparently, Trey caught on after a few days and switched to night workouts. The second week of the new year saw a dirt bike with small aluminum saddlebags parked at the end of the pier. Trey commented it was easier to run errands on it than get out his SUV, and gas mileage was a lot better.  
Walking by the bike one day, I looked closer, thinking how unusual it was to see saddlebags of any kind on a dirt bike, much less in black aluminum. Size-wise, they were big enough to hold the contents of a largish woman’s purse, but it was the locks that were interesting. They required a biometric fingerprint match to open, and I realized they were portable gun boxes customized to act as saddlebags.  
The third Tuesday of January, I was in a parking lot halfway down the block in a beat-up thirty year old beige Chevy pickup I borrowed from Sam Dandie sometimes, when Trey went by on the dirt bike a little after midnight. At a discreet distance, I followed him to a strip plaza with one suite lit up, a dojo teaching Shao Lin Kempo martial arts. The next night, his route seemed to be a ten kilometer run.  
Thursday I called and spoke to a very nice lady on the telephone, saying, “I’ve been thinking about taking some martial arts courses to learn some self-defense. My trouble is I work second shift, and I’m usually asleep during most of the day. I heard you maybe have classes late-night.”  
The lady said, “We do, Tuesday and Thursday nights starting at 1:00 a.m., that my husband teaches. He works second shift, too, and so do some of the students. They usually take that class, and one at noon on Saturday. But it’s for advanced students only. Do you have any prior martial arts experience?”  
I said, “No, ma’am, I boxed a little years ago, nothing serious. I’d be a beginner.”  
She said, “Then that wouldn’t be appropriate for you until you had enough training to get to maybe at least brown belt. Most of the students are black belts and everybody is at least second-degree brown. Could you do some Saturday morning classes and maybe during the week now and then?”  
The rest of the conversation was me thanking her for the help, but concluding my schedule was probably incompatible with beginner classes, relieving me of having to stretch rigorously, sweat, risk pulled groin muscles, or having to grunt hai.  
My follow-up phone call was to a female private investigator in Columbus, Ohio, who had been recommended by three people, including a police lieutenant there; the state professional association; and another PI, when I had said I was a corporate headhunter needing a background investigation on a high-level hire for a CFO position.  
I agreed to pay $2,500 and she agreed to dig deeply into the history of Trey MacLeod.

The rest of January passed in much the same way. Meyer and Trey went out with me on Munequita where we pounded into waves to knock off some of the accumulated marine crud. Salt water spray was a fine mist, coating Meyer’s solid-silver hair in droplets that created miniature rainbows. Trey and I had on hats, the salty spray just causing me to regularly have to clean my sunglasses on a towel I kept handy. Coming back in, I turned the controls over to Trey.  
I said, “Coming south like we are, at least if you are coming in to shore any time soon, you want to stay relatively inshore. You saw how the color changed when we turned north going out, and then when I reversed course?”  
Trey said, “Yeah, Gulf Stream, right? What, three or four knots difference?”  
“Yeah, in a lot of spots, it varies,” I said. “If you know the area, or have a good guidebook, you can navigate by dead reckoning. If the GPS breaks, you might have to use dead reckoning, or you have to figure out more or less where you are and plot it on the chart, then use the compass and watch your clock and speed, if you are well out. No street signs at sea. I keep charts and dividers and parallel rulers in a case in the cabin, here and on the Flush, paper doesn’t break.”  
Trey asked, “Around here, can you just use magnetic readings, or do you have to adjust for local variation to get true headings?”  
I said, “I know the area well enough I just usually use magnetic unless I’m going a pretty long ways. If I was going to Key West or something I’d apply whatever the variation is, which you can see on the charts. If I was just going to Miami, the guidebook and dead reckoning would be easier.”   
We plowed south without trying to yell over engines and wind until we got close to needing to run in. Eventually I yelled, “See the bridge? You should be able to pick up a buoy in a minute. Easy to remember, Red, Right, Returning. Keep the red buoys and lights on your right as you come in. When you make the turn into the basin, don’t cut it too close to north marker, you’ll see some black nun-buoys. It tends to silt up there and has to be dredged now and then. High tide you might be okay, and in Munequita we could slide in on a heavy dew, but in the DebbyK at low tide you’ll probably put it aground.”   
At the slip, Trey practiced backing in, doing increasingly better until Munequita was tied up and resting while we slipped the tarp in place. Trey left shortly afterwards, followed by Meyer who gave me another smirk over his shoulder.  
A couple of days later, the three of us took out DebbyK and Trey started learning the peculiarities of the boat he was calling home, exhibiting a sharp learning curve and deftness of decision making. By Groundhog Day, we had been out with the DebbyK a total of four times and Trey had been asking about making the hop to the Bahamas.

The rest of January went similarly, me doing penance for neglecting things, a little every day. I took time to start doing the tai chi exercises that had been casually discarded long ago. My mood swings were like a leftover party balloon, hard work and sunshine and pretty girls strolling on the beach giving them a lift; gloomy days and night time and a long list of things still to do and worrying about Jean and Trey together causing the air to leak out of my balloon of emotions and float toward the floor.  
After the holidays the nature of the tourists change who fill Lauderdale’s landscape. The average age goes up, with many of them snowbird couples comfortably in late middle age or a little older. Generally, they are content, financially secure, settled in their comfort zone with their spouse, and enjoying their time with fewer responsibilities than any time in their adult life.  
Couples with financial scratch to own or lease boats long-term tend to be more physically active and in better shape, with many still retaining youthful attitudes and, in some cases, vestiges of their younger looks. Surprisingly, many of the men are physically active and in better shape than many twenty-something slackers.  
Just as many of the wives make a point of still being able to wear a bikini or shorts, carrying the cuteness of their teen years into retirement age in their self-image. Inevitably, some slice of that population has a few wives looking for an extra-marital tumble. It seems the resident bum, beach, hair pale blond, eyes pale blue, has an allure similar to the country club tennis pro.  
I’ve always tried to avoid the married type, having no wish for unnecessary and unpleasant entanglements and possible confrontations, nor to add to possible tensions between spouses. So, admiring but distant was my policy with wives.  
But Lauderdale attracts a lot of single women during the winter. Many are older, widowed, and learning to live by themselves in a warmer climate after decades of spending winters with husband and family. The frequent looks are of slight confusion and befuddlement that the man dear to them was not still there to share the new experience.  
But again, some percentage were looking for anything from another husband to a vacation fling. Those whose paths intersected mine often had the appraising look of an experienced real estate investor, judging the risks against the return on investment.  
Past years it was not unusual I might have interest in one or two of the ladies, hopefully of good cheer and good will. Intelligence and thirst for enjoying life, tanned and muscular thighs, willingness and neediness for cruising, swimming by day or night, eating heartily when we were hungry, sleeping soundly when we were sleepy, sex as confirmation of still living and not ready for considering the retirement community, until assisted living takes over. Those were the memories I wanted, and wanted to leave with women of similar attitude.  
But this year there was no desire for a new visitor to the oversized king bed, no desire for trading patter as the meetings demanded. My sour mood wouldn’t lift enough for me to feel lighthearted enough to be good company for the few ladies that would have enjoyed the McGee of other seasons.  
Like an engine that kept sputtering, not dying but not catching, I spent January trying to get my motor running smooth, like it used to.

The afternoon of Saturday, the last day of January I received a call from the PI in Columbus.  
“Travis McGee, please. Cindy Fairfield calling.”  
I answered, “Hi, Cindy, this is Travis.”  
Cindy said, “I’ve made some progress on the background you asked me to do. I’ve got a couple of questions for you. What company is thinking about employing him?”  
I said, “Meyer Salvage Services, LLC, in Fort Lauderdale. If the background checks out, they’re going to extend an offer to McLeod.”  
Cindy asked, “And you’re a headhunter? How long have you been in the business?”  
Uh-oh. I said, “Not long, actually, I’m semi-retired. I was a salvage consultant and now that I’m not actively doing the field work I’ve started helping find candidates for other people in the business.”  
Long silence on the other end. The first one to speak usually loses. I broke first after about ninety seconds. “Meyer Salvage is an old client and friend. We actually live close to each other and have worked together for years.”  
Shorter pause before Cindy said, “Travis, this isn’t going to work if you lie to me. I have to have some trust with my clients. Want to try again?”  
I said, “Okay, my background is salvage and I’m more retired than half-retired. And Meyer is a friend of mine I’ve worked with off and on for years, but it’s more he’s helped me here and there. He’s an economist, and there is no job offer to be made. I have a daughter who is interested in Trey McLeod, who moved into the marina a little over a month ago. He seems like a pretty good guy, but doesn’t talk about his past, and I’m a little uneasy for some reason. I don’t want my daughter involved with someone if there’s a problem that might show up to break her heart.”  
Even shorter pause till Cindy said, “Okay, don’t try to BS me anymore, okay? You know I’m a PI. It wasn’t hard to find out you aren’t a headhunter. I didn’t even have to get out of my chair.”  
Man, I like the old days before the internet and instant communications when I’m telling a little white lie.  
I said, “Sorry. I guess I was trying to be discreet and tricky in case my daughter finds out.”  
Cindy asked, “Your daughter’s name is…?”  
“Jean Killian. Long story, she uses her mother’s name, who passed away at Jean’s birth. I didn’t know I had a daughter until she was sixteen. Our relationship has been…unconventional.”  
Cindy said, “Jean is an equine veterinarian, right? We get a lot of unconventional relationships in this business. I make it a point to try not to let my work be used for unethical purposes. So you don’t have a warm and fuzzy about McLeod?”  
“Not entirely. I tend to like him, but something makes me a little uneasy.” True entirely.  
“I’ve got a detailed report written that I’ll e-mail you,” said Cindy. “But if you have a few minutes I’ll hit the interesting parts.”  
I said, “I’m all yours for as long as it takes. But don’t e-mail it, send it overnight mail. I don’t trust electronic transmissions, we’re spied on by everybody from the carriers to every government in the world.”  
Cindy started, “Ian Sean MacLeod the Third, born in Bridgeport, Ohio, no siblings. Kindergarten through high school there, reasonably good student, played baseball in high school, undistinguished. Went to Ohio State, graduated with an accounting degree, got certified as a CPA, four years in a big public accounting firm. Both parents died during that time, looks like he inherited some money and insurance, but not enough to be independently wealthy.  
After that he had a job in Atlanta with another company that hires a lot of CPA’s and programmers and engineers, they consult with companies that have so much money they need to spend it on consultants instead of knowing what they’re doing. Pretty boring and straightforward. Got all that?”  
I said, “Yeah, pretty ordinary but sounds like a high achiever. No prior marriages or anything?”  
Cindy said, “Never married. Here’s where it gets interesting. Two-and-a-half years ago he took a job as a controller for a company in Charlotte. But he took about six weeks off between leaving the consulting company and checking in at the new company. He was apparently an avid hiker and adrenaline junkie, used some of the estate money to afford stuff like that.  
For some reason, he never showed up at the new company in Charlotte, no explanation, no contact.”  
My comment was, “Hmmmm….”  
Cindy said, “So I got interested. A person who had worked with him said McLeod was intending to go on one of those adventure vacations, he thought maybe Peru. I went over the $2,500, so if you think it’s worth it you can pay me. If not, it was worth it to satisfy my curiosity, but I’d like to know the end of the story.  
What I do know is his passport was used to travel to Peru and some credit card charges show various things consistent with an adventure holiday. But all charges stopped on all his accounts thirteen days after he terminated from the consulting company. The last was for dinner at a restaurant in a little town in Peru.  
His passport shows re-entry to the U.S. on July 30th of last year, about six months ago, and new credit card accounts activated the last four to eight months. By the way, he has a credit score of 825.”  
A pause, and I asked, “So you think our boy went to Peru and got into something where he dropped out of polite society for two years, and popped back in with enough money to live happily ever after?”  
Cindy said, “Could be. But I wonder if it’s something else. I engaged a college student who is fluent in Spanish to search newspapers and anything else she could find from Peru around that time. She found one mention in a weekly paper in that little town about a search for a missing hiker, a foreigner. Nothing else. That’s part of the extra expenses.”  
I asked, “So what do you think?”  
She said, “I don’t have enough to be sure. The photo you sent me could be MacLeod, or it could be anyone of ten million guys who are the right age and build. The only photos I could find were from high school. The current passport photo looks like your guy.  
But what if McLeod the Third disappeared in Peru, as in permanently because he’s dead? You might have MacLeod Number Four pretending he’s Trey. I think it’s at least fifty-fifty it’s someone else, or else your buddy found a way to make a bundle while he was gone and is trying to disappear a second time, this time as himself.  
If you find out, I’d kind of like to know. And if it was my daughter, I’d push for a loooooong engagement, like till the Twelfth of Never.”  
The call ended with me promising to let Cindy know, if I ever found out, and for her to invoice me the balance.

The bong of the alarm under the mat when Meyer stepped aboard woke me. I opened the door almost as soon as he knocked, startling him.  
Meyer said, “I brought you some fillets, Joe Rykler dropped off a red snapper he caught and didn’t want to go to waste. Did I interrupt your long winter’s nap?”  
I ran fingers through my bed head, or couch head to be more accurate, and said, “Not at all. It was time to get up to pee so I can do crossword puzzles on-line all night. Thanks for the fillets.”  
Meyer said, “Glad I could be of service. I hate to think of you wetting the bed if I hadn’t chanced by. Maybe I should bring you some adult diapers instead of red snapper.”  
Cranky, I said, “No worry, my insomnia sees to it I’m awake all night to make a potty trip every hour. See how nicely nature works together perfectly?”  
“You need to get out more,” Meyer said. “But I can see putting in a strenuous thirty, sometimes forty minutes a day doing anything wears you out. Hey, why don’t you call Jean and Annabelle Everett, and I’ll get Mary and Trey, and we’ll grill this fish, or blacken it, or however you want to cook it. We’ll do it tomorrow night, Mary says she has a couple bottles of wine that will go good with it.”  
Mary had retired from her job as VP of a winery when she married Meyer, cashing in stock options accumulated over thirty years. With limited space on a boat, Mary has the case-a-month plan delivered.  
Annabelle and I were friends who had shared a relationship cheering each other up time to time. Some would have called it “friends with benefits” until she married Wilson Bellannamy. Unable to bear being Annabelle Bellannamy, she had stuck with her last name of Everett through sixteen years of marriage. The “benefits” part had ceased during that time, but the “friends” part had stayed strong and included Wilse, until he passed away after a short illness.  
Ignoring Meyer’s smart mouth, I said, “Read this.”  
Meyer started reading the document that detailed the findings Cindy had summarized on the telephone. After reading the document, Meyer sat with his head bowed and eyes closed for half-a-minute before speaking.  
“Most distressing. Five possible solutions. Weight the probabilities and one is so slim as to be nonexistent. I stand corrected, six possible outcomes, but the sixth is nearly as improbable as the fifth. And the percentages lean toward undesirable outcomes.” Meyer sighed heavily.  
“How do you get six? I was thinking of only two,” I asked.  
Meyer said, “Four of mine are probably your two, I’ve simply divided them into the positive or negative of each. Possibilities are: he is the original Trey, number one with positive motivations for his actions, number two with nefarious intentions.  
Three and four are that he is someone who assumed the real Trey’s identity, again with either positive or undesirable intentions. Those are probably your two alternatives you were thinking about.”  
I said, “Yeah. I don’t think there is much chance of good intentions in either case, especially if isn’t the real Trey. What are five and six?”  
Meyer said, “Possibility five is she is simply wrong. Alternative six is Cindy Fairfield is lying and making up something because of something she turned up in her investigation. I can’t imagine why a private investigator would make up an elaborate story. Maybe she wants us to distrust Trey for reasons unknown. The odds are so slim they can almost be mathematically eliminated.”  
I said, “No way was she just making it up. It feels to me like Trey dropped out of sight and became someone else for two years, made a bunch of money in a shady way, and disappeared from there to resume being Trey.”  
Meyer said, “I agree it seems like the most probable. My bet would be he’s resumed his life and doesn’t expect old associates or enemies to find him, but is looking over his shoulder. The question is, having resumed being Trey the early-retired CPA, is he trying to settle down as a boring, ordinary but wealthy average American, or is he plotting something dark?”  
I said, “Does it really matter? If he’s either, it’s potentially dangerous. Maybe old acquaintances find him and the DebbyK goes boom. I don’t want Jean around him in case of somebody catching up to him.”   
We left it there and I mentally picked at it all night until dozing off just after dawn.  
 

 

Chapter 5

“…Last warmish day in a while as cold front pushes through late in the overnight. Expect small craft warnings to be in effect starting after dark tonight…” I flipped off the radio and put away the last of the breakfast dishes just washed, deciding Meyer was right; I need to do more than a half-hour of work a day. Today was tearing out and replacing an area almost the size of two sheets of marine plywood.  
If I started, I was committed to finishing today; otherwise the foredeck was going to have a gaping hole exposed to the weather. Four hours, I estimated, which meant probably five-and-a-half in reality. I didn’t call Annabelle because I didn’t think the red snapper was getting grilled tonight.  
About noon, Meyer came by and actually helped. I’d resorted to half a can of WD40 and a three foot pipe on the end of a box wrench to loosen bolts on the stanchions and cleats. Knuckles of both hands were scrapped and bloody and I was practicing the use of most of my curse words. Meyer was proving invaluable saving time by just handing me whatever tool I’d invariably left below somewhere and handing me a fresh beer or glass of water.  
Maybe two hours into the job, about the time I’d concluded a section of the railing was going to have to come out, Trey McLeod waved from the pier and yelled, “Need some help?”  
I waved back and yelled, “I think I’m beyond help.”  
Trey took a look at what I’d run up against, grinned, and said, “Perfect. Be back in ten minutes, just relax till I’m back.”  
Within the allotted time, he was back pushing one of the carts the marina have scattered around for residents, permanent or transient, to trundle groceries and packages from the unloading area to individual boats. The cart was loaded with tools, brand new still in boxes.  
Trey handed them up and said, “I’ve got another load. Start opening whatever we need, there’s a new grinder and multi-tool in there.”  
The second load was larger boxes, including a table saw and portable band saw. We made a work table out of sawhorses and an extra sheet of plywood, Meyer spent most of his effort on opening boxes, tossing out the mandatory nuisance of excess packing pieces, and mounting new blades and bits.   
Mary appeared in the middle of the afternoon with sandwiches and chips, disappearing into the galley and returning with pitchers of lemonade and tea to replace the six pack of Beck’s we’d emptied. My four hour estimate was turning into more like seven, and Trey said he had a set of halogen work lights in his SUV, which he eventually brought on board and Mary plugged up.  
She spent most of the afternoon in a deck chair, good naturedly poking fun at her husband and me, but engaging Trey in a steady stream of conversation.  
I’d asked, “How did you just happen to have a truck full of new tools? You just decided to wake up today and hold up a chandler’s?”  
Trey grinned and answered, “They’re all birthday presents.”  
Mary asked, “Your birthday, Trey? How old are you?”  
“Thirty-one today. I treated myself to a birthday party and bought all the tools I could think of to work on a boat.”  
Trey was still grinning, like he’d just opened a bunch of presents on Christmas morning.  
“Happy Birthday! If I’d known I would have baked a cake. Anybody send you a card?” Mary was like a sweet little old grandmother doting on her favorite grandson.  
Trey said, “Nope, no cards. Just tools.”  
Mary kept up the conversation, working through what little information we had already. Parents deceased, no siblings, no wife or wives in the past, born in Ohio. About the time Mary started quizzing Trey about girlfriends, I received a call from Boone Waites, an old acquaintance and client.  
Close to twenty-five years ago, Boone was on the way up in the dog-eat-dog world of retailing, just beginning to hit the critical mass that carried him through every recession and the ever-changing vagaries of consumer whims the last quarter-century. He had hired Meyer to consult on economic trends and help develop a strategy to defend against sudden changes in consumer tastes.  
At that point, Boone had the largest privately held corporation in Alabama and three retail brands that were doing well. Over two years, Boone credited Meyer with the plan that had him diversifying into commercial real estate across the southeast, buying up empty malls in fourteen states. He started two higher-end brand clothing stores, one men’s and one women’s, and integrated backward into mills manufacturing his own merchandise in the United States at a time when everything else was sending production out of the country.  
A dozen years later, after another recession, Boone took the company public. You’ve likely shopped in one of his stores, he’s continued to diversify, with Meyer dong a review ever couple of years. Boone still owns 21% of WaitesCo, and is personally worth about thirteen billion dollars.  
During Meyer’s first gig, close to when he was wrapping his part and the commercial acquisitions had started, Boone had problems and Meyer recommended me. Boone’s only child, his son David, was attending college and the local cops were not being friendly because David was a witness against a star football player in an assault and battery.  
I’d helped shepherd David through two months to the end of the quarter. He was one of a dozen who saw the football player assault a female student, who considered the player whipping out his Johnson in front of her to be rude, and objected loudly enough to bring it to the attention of the room, including her boyfriend who had been thirty feet away.  
The football player hit the girl, breaking her jaw, then started fighting the boyfriend and anyone else in reach, accounting for a variety of bodily injuries. His story was the boyfriend had started it and the girl had jumped on his back, breaking her jaw when he threw her off.  
Five of the witnesses had subsequently run afoul of the local law in mysterious and unusual ways, and developed amnesia about the fight. Wiring up David’s apartment and vehicle with hidden cameras had proven fortunate. Two local police officers entered his apartment two days after I did so and planted enough cocaine to assure a long prison term.  
It was quite an experiment to find the right people in the local and state power structure who took cops intimidating witnesses seriously. Death threats toward David and me were made, including in the form of me being pulled over on a lonely stretch of road in the panhandle.  
I was lucky; the rogue cop missed with his billy club that was intended to crack my skull open, and missed his first two shots. I was also lucky there were lots of marshy bogs and forests and that the body has never been found.  
I had shadowed David until he testified, which, along with an out of focus security video, convinced the jury there should be one less player on the field next season. Somehow, the sentence was reduced to time served of three days, restitution for medical expenses, and the player went number four in the NFL draft.  
The football player spent five years in the league, and had a series of similar incidents and drug addiction issues until his lack of on-field production made his issues too painful to deal with. He was financially broke before he was cut, convicted and sentenced to eight years before he was 28, and killed in prison before turning thirty.  
When I took the phone, Boone said, “Travis! Long time, boy. How you doin’?” all mushmouth, the way Southern businessmen get on the telephone lots of times.  
I said, “Doing good, Boone. Haven’t heard from you in a coon’s age. Still selling some dresses to pay the rent?”  
Boone said, “Yeah, yeah, even have enough left over some months to be able to afford to go fishin’ if I do it in freshwater. Who can afford the diesel to go after anything out in deep water? Hey, I’d love to spend time catching up, but this is actually a business call. Could you round up Meyer? I called his boat but didn’t get an answer. I was hoping the two of you could come see me tomorrow.”  
I said, “Meyer is actually here helping me with some repairs on the Flush. What’s a good time?”  
Boone said, “You still living on that bachelor pad houseboat? I’d have thought it would have sunk and you’d found a real boat by now. Hey, bring Meyer. Why don’t you guys come out about three o’clock to the house—not the office. This is a salvage job. If you can figure out what to do, heck, I’ll buy you a decent boat.”  
By the time I went back on deck, Jean was in a deck chair sipping lemonade and helping Mary tag team Trey with questions. It was Groundhog Day and the rodent in Pennsylvania had decreed the country would have six more weeks of winter. It only makes sense our extended weather depends on a near sighted varmint seeing his shadow or not on one particular day.   
It was in the eighties right now, and I went back to sweating with Trey. The halogen lights came on shortly, and we put the last cleat back in place eight hours and forty-five minutes after I’d started. Without Trey’s help, it wouldn’t have been done in three days, and I still didn’t have any better idea if he was the real Trey McLeod or not.  
It was after dark, we were all hungry, and Mary suggested we go eat at Benjamin’s. Trey left to shower and change, I did the same, and in thirteen minutes Meyer, Mary, and I were in Miss Agnes, my converted Rolls Royce pickup truck. Jean said she would wait and bring Trey in her truck, a four-door doolie Ford F-250 with tool boxes mounted on both sides.  
The Irish restaurant had been around nearly forty years, still in the family, and being run by the grandson. It was doing better than ever, Aiden, the grandson, having worked in it growing up, then went to a culinary school and working at other restaurants for a few years before coming back to run it when his dad semi-retired.  
Aiden had updated the interior twice in the six years he had been running it, avoiding the usual failure of many commercial businesses to let physical facilities degrade until the clientele consist of mainly alcoholics, comfortable only in dingy and dim surroundings smelling of stale beer and less-than-clean restrooms.  
The core menu stayed the same consistently, but half of it changed seasonally, plus daily specials. New generations of locals were faithful patrons and tourists were regularly directed to the restaurant by media reviews and being featured twice on television food shows.  
But this first Monday night in February saw as few diners as they probably ever had. They nominally closed at nine p.m. during the week, and it was less than thirty minutes until closing. Only about seven or eight other tables and booths were occupied.  
Settled with orders in for iced tea, I said, “Meyer, Boone asked if we would see him tomorrow afternoon, three o’clock. Going to his house instead of his office. He sounded good, but there was a little tension or worry in his tone. He said it was a salvage job.”  
Meyer said, “It’s been over three years since he asked me to do a review. Everything was rocking along fine. I casually watch the business news on it, and I have a thousand shares. Stock price has retreated a little lately, not too much. They’ve had some real estate issues, I think, but I haven’t looked too closely. Don’t know any details.”  
Mary asked, “Exactly what is he wanting you two to salvage?”  
I said, “Don’t know, I guess we’ll find out tomorrow. Trey was a big help today. No way to have done it without the help. Likable and competent young man. Considering his background is financial or accounting, he seems to like working with his hands and uses tools better than the usual office guy.”   
Changing the subject had twofold purposes; Mary knew something about what “salvage jobs” were, and I didn’t want her to give grief to Meyer about talking to Boone about whatever it was. Okay, he and I weren’t exactly young and full of piss and vinegar anymore.  
Second, maybe because of working harder and a longer day than I’d done in ages and actually having accomplished something, my balloon was full of emotional helium and floating high above the landscape. I couldn’t help but like Trey, but that didn’t mean I wanted him and Jean dating.  
Jean had made a point of the two of them driving over separate from us geezers. I suspected that meant she liked the freedom of them being able to stay out and return when and where they pleased. After Cindy Fairfield’s report, I was even more opposed to the two of them connecting.  
Mary was looking at the other people in the restaurant, clucked in disapproval, and said, “Looks like two couples on dates, though I guess one couple might be recently married. And some younger married couples. The girls dressed up, all of them are young and fresh and cute as can be. The men all look like they just rolled out of bed and put on the first thing they pulled out of the clothes hamper.”  
I looked around and noted she was absolutely right. My gender looked like they hadn’t been capable of dressing themselves without mommy present. Mostly crumpled cargo shorts and tee shirts or polo shirts that might have been fresh three wearings ago.  
Mary said, “I will bet you dinner that when Jean and Trey walk in he will be well dressed, though casual, hair combed, socks on, nothing threadbare. And I also am willing to bet you that Trey has been married, or at least lived with a woman for an extended time, and probably had that end disastrously, likely a divorce or messy break-up. I don’t know if this is the real Trey MacLeod or a substitute, but my conclusion is he doesn’t have any evil intent. I think whatever happened in his past is causing him to want to start fresh all over.”  
Meyer was sipping his water, looking at Mary and me.  
I asked, “So he got divorced, disappeared or assumed someone else’s identity because he’s worried about his ex- being a stalker, and is a little wooly lamb?”  
Mary said, “Oh, he’s not a wooly lamb. He reminds me of you, Travis. You put on an ‘aw, shucks, I’m just a little wooly beach bum’ façade like you put on your shoes. Most people buy the act, and some have done so right up to the time you’ve broken their arm, or worse. Trey is the same way. Have you been an evil genius all these years, Travis?”  
My mouth was working but I wasn’t actually able to say anything, and Mary said, “Shush, here they come. I win the first bet.”  
Indeed, Trey was in sharply creased khaki slacks, button-down shirt, predominantly white with black and beige vertical stripes, light brown socks with expensive looking leather loafers, and a lightweight sport coat. He was by far the best dressed man in the place, making it look utterly effortless and totally natural on him. Jean looked like she was delighted to be out on a date.  
Dinner was nominally not only pleasant, it would have been one of the most enjoyable evenings I’d had in months. Except I was worrying over Mary’s declarations about Trey, using her woman’s intuition as a basis to decide I was a worrywart.  
Aiden himself brought out our orders, recognizing Meyer and me. After excusing himself to attend to business, we were halfway through dinner when he pulled up a chair and poured everyone a glass of wine from a bottle he’d brought.  
“Meyer, Mary, I’ve missed you. And Trav, you need to stop in more often. I can’t get out of here many nights; you have to bring the party to me. Introduce me to your friends.”  
Aiden was a big, burly guy, the epitome of an Irishman who was thoroughly all-American but stayed true to his genetics of enjoying a pint with friends, and almost everyone he had ever met was a friend.  
I said, “Aiden, this is my daughter, Jean Killian. This is Trey MacLeod, who just moved on board a boat in Bahia Mar.”  
Aiden said, “Begorrah, another Irishman! I should have brought beer instead of wine.”  
For the next hour-and-a-half everyone was in stiches as we told old stories and new stories that would become old ones. We talked about the work of the day and I displayed scraped knuckles; Trey looked like he had been punching a keyboard all day instead of scraping himself up.  
Jean told me, “Hey, Dad, I’m leaving in the morning to make some calls the other side of Gainesville. Probably three days, but I’m taking Friday off. I’ll see you then.”  
A few minutes later, Aiden said, “So Meyer, Greece is one of your clients isn’t it? They’re good Socialists following your super-Keynesian advice, aren’t they? Working good, ay?”  
Aiden had a long-running, good-natured argument with Meyer. We all laughed as Meyer was denying that Greece was a client. But then he shocked me.  
Meyer tilted his head down, put up both hands, and announced, “Aiden, you and Trey will be glad to know I hereby admit Keynesian economics has proven to not work nearly as well as I, and all other Keynesians, have always advocated. In fact, I have to come to grips with grading it a ‘D’ or worse in practical application. Furthermore, one can make a persuasive argument that Socialism and Keynesian policy has blurred in practice and proven to generally work poorly.”  
The whole table had our mouths open a moment before we all roared with laughter. Meyer was looking inconsolable, conceding defeat to his two younger opponents.  
“Go ahead, laugh. I’m an old man,” Meyer said, “and I’ve come to the realization that my entire professional life has been a fraud. All the things I’ve believed have not helped people live better, or countries to shape better policies to help their citizens, it’s done the exact opposite. I’m intellectually honest enough to realize those who opposed the ideas I promulgated were right in claiming it was harming instead of helping.”  
Meyer looked so sad I felt bad for him, and I guess everyone else did, too.   
Trey said, “Actually, I’ve read some of your old papers and a lot of what you suggested wasn’t what I would describe as detrimental. I remember one paper you wrote in about 1980, I think, warning about global debt totaling something like two trillion dollars. Your fellow Keynesians about had a conniption fit. Look at it now, blown out beyond your wildest nightmares back then.”  
Meyer didn’t look all that consoled, but Trey was still talking, “I think you were concerned that the world doesn’t have enough natural resources for everyone in China, for example, to have a Chris Craft. You’re in the wrong mindset. You were thinking like the old doomsday argument that food production was an arithmetic progression while the population increased at a compound growth rate, which is not true as we know.  
And your other faulty premise is from the desire to be a nice guy and wanting everybody to be ‘equal,’ which is a fantasy. Everybody, even in this country can’t have a Chris Craft, but that doesn’t mean everybody even wants one or should have one. Almost everyone in the world has the possibility of a reasonable standard of living, though a lot of places are a long way from that, mostly because of being stupid and not making an effort. But the fantasy is to think everyone has to have the same at a really high world standard. You helped several governments defer problems and soften what could have been total collapse if they had done what they wanted to do. Better to have economies that just never lived to potential than total collapse.”  
Meyer seemed to feel better, but was on a downer thinking about years of having been proven wrong.

All the other customers left, employees cleaned up and most departed, two hanging around obviously waiting on us.  
Aiden eventually noticed and motioned one over, saying, “Thanks, Gus, you guys go on. I’ll total the credit card machine and lock up. I’ve got about twenty minutes to work up the order for tomorrow. See you then.”  
We continued to laugh deep from our bellies at ridiculous things one or the other of us had experienced, until we finally decided to let Aiden finish his work day. Since everybody had helped my home not have a hole in the roof that day, Aiden got to run my credit card and we shook hands at twenty till eleven.  
Outside, the temperature had dropped probably fifteen degrees, the wind was blowing, and I wished I’d worn a jacket. Making the turn into the parking lot we were five abreast, me in the middle and Jean and then Trey to my left. I was totally mellowed out, fishing for the keys to Miss Agnes in my pocket as we strolled toward the two pickups parked side by side against the back fence of the lot.  
I didn’t register any apprehension at the three young guys walking toward us, even when one asked, “Hey, amigos, you got some change to spare?”  
I said, “No, sorry,” my automatic response to panhandlers who immediately convert any charitable donations to alcohol or drugs, when the second of the three said, “Then how about putting your (bleeping) hands up and giving us your (bleeping) wallets, muttha(bleepers).”  
That was when I heard the laughter. The hairs on my arms stood up and for two seconds I couldn’t do anything. The second guy, almost a foot shorter than me, had a large frame chrome revolver pointed at my heart. I’d always thought when the Ripper showed up it would be more dramatic than being mugged by some cheap hoods that weren’t even out of their teens.  
After an eternity of the two seconds, I raised my right hand while using my left to push Jean back. It took another second to realize Trey had already pushed her behind him and stepped closer to me, shielding her behind us, for all the good it would do if bullets started flying indiscriminately. The laughter was louder, the Ripper enjoying the last seconds of me squirming before the gun in front of me went off. Game, set, and match point with him serving.  
Meyer had pushed Mary back and was talking soothingly to the three.  
“Relax, just relax. No one needs to do anything rash you might regret. When you’re ready just point the guns where no one gets hurt if one goes off so we can hand you our billfolds. Relax, everyone is cooperating, but you need to lower the guns. Do you have a bag for us to put everything in?”  
I was thinking, why couldn’t they hold the gun with one hand and take our wallets with the other? What was the big deal? It never crossed my mind Meyer was trying to get them to point the guns away in exchange for our cooperation. The bag comment was redundant, I thought, since the guy in front of him was holding a dirty white ditty bag with a drawstring.  
Meyer has a calming effect on people, and his guy actually tucked his gun, a blue steel revolver, in his waistband to hold the bag open with both hands. But the guy in front of Trey was hyper and had a small blue revolver right in Trey’s face, who had both hands up.  
Trey’s guy yelled, “Hey, keep him (bleeping) covered! Don’t listen to his (bleep)!”  
The laughing was a high pitched howl as the guy in front of me stepped back and swung the revolver toward Meyer, then back toward me, trying to cover both of us. Please, Lord, just me, don’t take Meyer too. The two guys with guns in their hands were wound tight and one or both were about to shoot.  
I didn’t know what happened until I saw the grainy security camera tape, and had to ask even after seeing it. When it was over, I was still standing there with my hands up.  
In retrospect, with the help of the tape and explanation, I deciphered what my senses recorded but had all run together. Trey’s right hand, still raised made a sharp waving motion and he snapped his fingers. The mugger in front of him was already looking toward Meyer and the motion and noise distracted him for the less-than-blink-of-an-eye it took Trey to move.  
Trey’s head leaned left to get out of line with the revolver while his left hand slapped the revolver, his right meeting the left in wrapping around the mugger’s gun hand and turning it a hundred-and-eighty degrees into the bad guy. The pop! I heard was the single shot, under the chin and angling upward into the brain cavity.  
The mugger seemed to be launched backward, which had been from Trey kicking him as he tore the gun out of the grip of a dead or dying punk thug. Trey had the revolver in both hands, in a Weaver stance, and pointed at the middle guy before anyone reacted.  
When the guy in front of me tried to turn and bring his revolver up to point at Trey, I heard “Don’t! Don’t!” before three more pops resulted in small holes in the guy’s face, one appearing on the bridge of his nose, two more in his forehead as he fell.  
Trey squared around on the far guy, still in the Weaver stance, as Number Three looked stupidly at his two buddies, down and dead, and tried clumsily to tug his gun out of his waistband.  
I heard, “Don’t! Give it up! Don’t make me shoot you! No!”  
It didn’t matter. After almost dropping the pistol, the idiot got a grip on it and tried to bring it up to shoot Trey. He pulled the trigger and the louder bang was a hundred times louder than the shots from Trey’s gun. The shot went into the pavement at idiot’s feet.  
He had every chance to quit, but Trey waited longer than I would have, if I’d actually been able to react like Trey. Pop, pop, pop and the mugger folded up, three bullets in middle of the chest. The laughing reached a crescendo, and then stopped. I could have sworn I saw something exhaled from the third guy’s mouth, maybe moisture from his last breath, as the laughing died out.  
 

 

Chapter 6

Three bodies, just a little more than kids, who had chosen a path to a quick meeting with the Green Ripper, were sprawled on the pavement. It was dark, wind gusting hard, just pools of lighter areas from pole-mounted lights. The adrenaline crash had me so shaky I barely made it to the little strip of grass over by the trucks before heaving up everything in my stomach.  
When I finally stopped the spasms and was sitting on a concrete wheel stop edging the parking space, Jean handed me a bottle of Sprite I guess she had gotten out of her truck. I rinsed my mouth out and saw all four were standing close by, no one hurt.  
I asked, “Meyer? Did you hear him? Did you hear the laughing? I thought it was for you and me. I thought he was going to take you first to taunt me. I’m sorry, it would be my fault. I’m sorry.”  
Meyer said, “It’s okay, none of us are hurt. Are you talking about the Green Ripper?”  
I said, “Yeah, he was laughing. I thought it was for us. The Ripper let me think it was for us.”  
Meyer said doubtfully, “I heard the wind howling through the electric lines. It maybe sounded a little like a laugh or squeal.”  
Jean asked, “What’s the Green Ripper? What are you talking about?”  
“The Grim Reaper. When I was little, I heard grown-ups talking about it and I interpreted it as the Green Ripper.”  
I was exhausted and cold and wanted to lay down someplace warm.  
Jean said, “I didn’t hear anybody laughing. Can you stand up? I thought you were the tough guy who had done stuff like this all the time. Or is that all a bunch of bull people have told me? We need to call the cops, so finish puking and let’s figure out what to do instead of imagining things.”  
Trey said, “Hush, Jean. Trav is in shock and probably shaky after all the adrenaline. I’m shaky myself, and I’ve thrown up after crashing like that.”  
Jean turned on him and was almost screaming, “I’ve heard for most of my life about what a tough guy Dad is from everybody who knows him. He’s lectured me like I’m four years old over and over, and when something happens he freezes then goes and pukes after it’s all over. If you hadn’t done something those muggers were going to shoot all of us, and Daddy Tough Guy just froze because of hearing voices in his head.”  
Trey said, “Be quiet. Everybody has times when they don’t react like they would ninety-nine other times out of a hundred. I know, and I’m not about to criticize, I’ve done worse. Everybody who has been in a position like that thinks they should have done something different than what they did. Or they will think that at some point. Just be quiet for a minute.”  
Instead, Jean said, “We still have to call the cops.”  
Trey said, “Uh, actually I have a problem.”  
Meyer asked, alarmed, “Are you hurt?”  
Trey said, “Oh, no, wasn’t touched. I’m okay. Uh, while I’m thinking about it, let me take a look at the three guys.”  
I struggled up, got the big rechargeable spotlight out of Miss Agnes, and joined everybody except Jean by the bodies. Jean stayed by the trucks, arms crossed, hugging herself tight. The thought of leaving the light off seemed smart, but we needed to be able to see what the result four violent seconds had left.  
It seemed to not matter about the light, because about then Aiden came running out to the parking lot, holding a sawed-off pump shotgun and raising his voice to yell softly, “Meyer, Trav? Everyone all right?”  
Meyer answered, saying, “It’s okay, Aiden. Don’t get excited, make sure that shotgun has the safety on and pointed someplace else. It’s all over.”  
Aiden said, “I saw you guys on the security video . . . that you hadn’t left and Travis was being sick. I backed it up and when I saw part of what happened I grabbed the shotgun I keep in the office and ran out. Looks like I’m way too late.”  
We looked at all three bodies. Surprisingly little blood or carnage. In the brief flash of the spotlight, one could see a very small hole in the soft underside of the jaw of the first mugger. No exit wound.  
It was easy to see the three entry holes on the face of the second guy, but virtually impossible to see the chest wounds on the third mugger because of the crumpled shirt and jacket. No exit wounds on any of them.  
Trey pushed the thumb release of the cylinder of the revolver and asked me to hold the light on it for a couple of seconds.  
He said, “Cheap revolver, nine shot .22 that won’t leave shell casings laying around. Nice choice for a thug not wanting to make a lot of noise or leave much evidence. The other two guys had revolvers, too. Tattoos say they’re gangbangers, Latin Lovers, two have teardrop tats. I’ve got a problem and, uh, maybe need some help from you guys. I hate to ask, but I have to.”  
We had drifted back toward Jean, away from the bodies, and no interest apparent from anyone else. Two cars passed by without slowing, we were way back in the shadows.  
Mary had been quite until now, and she took charge of the situation. She asked Trey, “What kind of problem do you have? It was self-defense. I guess Aiden even has it on video.”  
Trey said, “Yeah, that kind of increases the problem. I really need to kind of keep a low profile, like nothing on TV or the internet that shows me. Better if I wasn’t involved at all. And I kind of would appreciate it if maybe all of you could give me at least two hours before you call the police. Four hours would be better, but maybe that’s stretching it. And if that video disappeared, it would help a lot.”  
Mary asked, “So you’re going to take off and disappear?”  
Trey said, “Yeah. I hate to, but I need to leave.”  
Mary asked, “For how long? When will you be back?”  
Trey looked like he wanted to dig a hole in the ground with his toe, but said, “I won’t ever be back. So this is good-bye, and thanks for everything. I enjoyed knowing all of you. Sorry.”  
Mary nodded her head and asked, “Are you wanted by the police?”  
“No ma’am,” was said without hesitation. “Actually, the less you know, the better for you. But it isn’t the police, it’s maybe the opposite of the police.”  
Another head nod from Mary, then, “Aiden, can I impose on you for your security video and to forget everything after we left the restaurant?”  
Aiden looked startled, but nodded.  
“Okay, Meyer, hon, go in with Aiden and get it please.” Mary turned to Jean and Trey and asked, “Are you two sleeping together yet?”  
All of us were startled now, but Trey said, “No, of course not.”  
Jean just shook her head “no.”  
Mary said, “Time to start then. Jean, you’re taking off on a three day business trip. You’re crazy about Trey, he’s crazy about you, and he decided to go on the trip with you. You’re about to leave in just a minute, don’t go home, head to wherever your calls are. Trey can buy a toothbrush on the road. Trey, do you have some cash on you? Don’t use a credit card.”  
Trey and Jean nodded, and Mary turned to me. “Travis, I gather you’ve been in this kind of situation before. What do we do with the bodies?”  
I was beginning to function again after the paralysis of fear and vomiting.  
I said, “Wait a minute. Jean isn’t going with Trey, and I want to know some details about who is looking for Trey.” I turned to him and said, “You can start with if you’re actually Trey MacLeod or not.”  
After a couple seconds, he took a deep breath and said, “No, I’m not Sean MacLeod. The real Sean was my best friend, and he died on a hiking trip in the mountains in Peru when he took a trail that wasn’t traveled much. He must have fallen, I helped find his body almost three months later; he’d fallen over two hundred feet down a ravine. The company that ran the vacation trips hadn’t reported it because they didn’t want the bad publicity.  
Sean and I had worked together, and we left that company about the same time. We were both single, I’d had a divorce three years before, and neither of us had any family. I’d taken a job I thought was going to be great, but by the time I went looking for Trey I’d realized something was fishy about the company I’d gone to. It took another year or so, but I figured out it was laundering money, in the billions every year.  
You don’t need to know any details, but the people there think I’m dead. I’m using Trey’s identity and started a new life. If the police dig too deep, or if my face is in public, it could all come apart. If the people I worked for realize I’m alive, they’ll be here within twenty-four hours to kill me.”  
We were all quiet for a few seconds, till Mary said, “Well, Travis? If it were you, should I call the police or help clean up this mess? What do we do, call or figure out what to do with the bodies?”  
Damn Mary anyway. I knew she was pretty special for Meyer to have married her, but I still didn’t like it.   
I said, “Jean? You remember where we went fishing on the Hillsboro Canal a couple years ago, that little parking area where you can launch a boat? Can you find it in the dark?”  
Jean said, “Yeah, it shouldn’t be all that tough. It was well marked, if I remember right. Maybe an hour-and-a-half drive this time of night.”  
I said, “Okay, drop the tailgate of your truck. You’ve got that sprayed on bed liner, don’t you? Do you have a tarp?”  
She nodded and said, “I have a couple tarps in the toolboxes.”  
Trey and I lugged the bodies one at a time and rolled them into the bed of Jean’s truck. The toolboxes raised the sides higher than a regular truck, and Jean stretched a tarp over them, using a couple small tool boxes and a couple steel bars she carried, to hold everything in place.  
I said, “Turn your phones off. Better yet, take out the batteries. Give me an hour to get started, and it will probably take me close to three hours in this weather to get there. Expect me about three-thirty at that boat ramp. If I’m not there by four, I guess use Trey’s phone to call me, I’ll try to have mine on about then.”  
It was starting to spit rain, looking like it would start pouring any second. I said, “Let’s hope it rains like the dickens, it’ll probably keep any fishermen at home. Plus it should wash this parking lot down good. Don’t speed, don’t get pulled over. I love you, Jean. See you in a few hours.”  
 

 

Chapter 7

Trey MacLeod  
Jean drove, more conservatively than I’d seen her do whenever I’d ridden with her, and we fought a deluge for the first twenty minutes. We didn’t talk except a couple cautions about driving conditions.  
I was in a swirl of thoughts. No scenario I had ever imagined included unexpected help from a multitude of people I liked and respected . . . and wanted to respect me. Having started off with a thumbnail summary about not actually being Ian Sean MacLeod III was probably not helping with earning that respect.  
Plus I was attracted to Jean and putting her in this situation as an accomplice to … something … was not really the kind of date designed to impress a girl. As soon as we settled down for the drive and the rain eased off, I expected the third degree. It was probably going to make her mad when I deflected any questions. She was better off not knowing.  
The rain caused lights to glare and have halos, visibility was terrible. I asked, “Want me to drive a while?” and was turned down with a curt “No.” No radio, no conversation, just rain drumming on the metal roof and glass. Dark and glare, swish of wipers, mentally reviewing what I’d done.  
Three punk gangbangers taking me by surprise because I’d relaxed among the closest thing I’d had to friends. My expectations were if someone showed up to kill me, it would be someone with some class, not in a street mugging.  
When it happened, I was so surprised I didn’t even have a chance to reach for the S&W .40 on my belt. No one had noticed it, as far as I could tell. I have a concealed carry permit in Trey’s name, and the sport coat covered it nicely. But the kid had the stupid little .22 in my face before I realized it.  
All I’d had time to do was push Jean back and raise my hands. Give the punks some cash and let them go away was the smart move and my intended plan, but maybe it was the dropping barometric pressure or something and the wildness of the wind, but you could see they were going to shoot someone, and probably not quit until all five of us were shot.  
Thank goodness for the martial arts classes where I’d practiced the response to having a gun in your face maybe twenty-thousand times since I was eight. Usually, the barrel was pointed back into the chest of whoever the perp was and you could either tear it out of his grasp, break his finger, or put a bullet into his chest.  
Using it in real life was something I’d never expected, and it looked like the gun barrel had pointed up right under the guys chin. I wondered if that meant I’d almost missed the slap-and-twist move. Realizing how close it was gave me the shakes and I had the delayed reaction, thankfully not needing to throw up.   
Jean asked, “Are you okay?”  
I said, “Yeah, I’m just shaky. I need a minute. Can you turn the heater up?”  
She did without saying anything more, and I settled down after about ten minutes. I wasn’t hungry, but a soft drink and anything sugar-loaded would be wonderful. With three bodies in the bed, drive-thru windows or stopping at a convenience store wasn’t such a good idea.  
Jean turned off the primary road we were on. I saw a sign with an arrow pointing toward the turnoff where the boat landing was. The wind was blowing hard enough I could hear and feel it against the cab and Jean was having to fight to keep in the lane.  
The rain had slacked off, and I thought for a minute about Travis out in a small boat in this slop. He was actually risking his life as well as committing some kind of crime, whatever the official charge might be, to help me not be outed.  
We passed some signs about a new subdivision with new homes for sale. After seeing the third sign, it registered on me and I asked Jean to pull into the place a couple miles up the road.  
The first street went back a ways and had some other streets turning off it, with lots of scrubby brush and trees as best as I could tell in the dark. Then several lots that had been scrapped clear, and three houses under construction. I didn’t see anything that looked like a completed and occupied house, and had Jean stop in front of the three, which were just slab foundations. One house was partially framed.  
With a flashlight from the glove box, and the rain down to just a patter, I stayed on the pavement until I could spot some concrete blocks with the light. There was some grass, but not enough to keep from being sloppy muddy as I made three trips to bring back six blocks and put them in the bed. I was able to put the tool boxes back in their spots in the side boxes.  
I looked for some rope or anything we could use, but no luck, at least in the dark. I scraped what mud I could off my shoes, which actually wasn’t too bad since it was mainly sandy soil. Back in the cab we still didn’t talk much, passing a model home and what looked like two occupied new homes as we wound around and came out the other side of the subdivision.  
A few turns got us back on the right road, and we eventually found the turnoff, then the parking spaces and boat ramp. It was still gusting hard, but only an occasional few seconds of rain.  
Jean turned to me and asked, “So what do we do if a park ranger or sheriff pulls up?”  
I said, “Good question. Have you got any fishing tackle on the truck?”  
“No. And no fisherman in his right mind is going to be out here this morning.”   
Jean was right about that, wind gusts rocked the truck regularly.  
I said, “I guess the choice is sit here or unload the bodies over there out of sight. We’ll have to move them again, but they won’t be in the bed if anyone looks.”  
Checking the dash clock, it was 2:33 in the morning. Our ninety minute drive had taken almost three hours in reality. Maybe an hour till Travis would show up, maybe two hours.  
Jean said, “If someone shows up, we can let them think we’re parking. Act like you’re actually interested in me if anyone does.”  
That sat out in the open a few seconds until I said, “I am interested in you, Jean. But it maybe isn’t a good idea.”   
Jean said, “Why isn’t it a good idea? I’m helping you get rid of three bodies, and Dad and Meyer and Mary are helping you, and you say it isn’t a good idea. Why isn’t it?”  
I hesitated, finally saying, “You heard why back in the parking lot. There’s an organized crime gang that would kill me as quick as they can if they knew I’m alive. The only reason I can stay in the country is because they’re convinced I’m dead. And if anything happens that might change that, I need to disappear literally within minutes. You saw that tonight, the random factor. And you don’t need to be in the way if they find out and decide shooting up the DebbyK while you’re on board.”  
No response, and after a minute I said, “Pull over there and let me unload the bodies.”  
Jean pulled over, and I grunted and tugged and laid all three bodies a few feet off the pavement, behind some low bushes thirty yards from the boat ramp. Checked again, no wallets or anything of consequence on them.  
I looked in the one metal garbage can and it only had some trash a foot deep in it. My sport coat probably had stains on it. Rats, it was one of my favorites.  
Back in the truck Jean started the heater again and we rolled to the other end of the tiny parking area. I took off my holster and stored it in the glove box, getting a look but no comment from Jean.  
I said, “It’s legal. I have a concealed carry permit. I never got a chance to draw it back when I needed it.”  
Two minutes before Jean said, “Could you hold me if I slid over?”  
I motioned and she scooted over, and we turned and twisted till we were as comfortable as possible in the truck. Jean started to shiver, and I held her until the heater and body heat let her get back under control.  
She turned her face up, and I kissed her, gently at first, then more urgently as she initiated the need for contact. Anyone coming upon us would have believed the ‘going parking’ story, but it was the light from Munequita searching for the boat ramp that broke things up instead of a cop car.

After Travis had started back down the canal, Jean drove us along secondary roads until taking the ramp onto I-75 North. She hadn’t said but a couple words, just about intersections and which way to turn, until we were on the interstate. The rain had stopped but wind was still pushing the truck around some with the stronger gusts.  
“So, what happened that you assumed the identity of Trey MacLeod?”  
I’d been expecting the question before now, and gave her my predetermined answer. “Jean, it’s best you don’t know anything. It’s a lot to ask, but you need to trust me on it.”  
And predictably, she didn’t. “I think I’m entitled to know something. I just helped you get rid of three bodies. Not only me, but my father and Meyer and Mary. Even Aiden. You owe me some kind of explanation.”  
We rode in silence for fifteen seconds before she asked, “Well? You aren’t going to say anything? Just leave me to do the driving and help cover up and stay quiet and stupid?”  
Hostility was thick in her tone.  
I said, “I’m trying to figure out what I can tell you without exposing you to anything more dangerous than I already have. Give me a minute.”  
Jean was quiet, and after trying to arrange pieces mentally, I said, “Okay, I know you deserve to know everything, but if I tell you all of it and some people in my past find out, they’ll use you for leverage, and not in a very nice way. But here’s some of it.  
Trey MacLeod and I were I guess best friends, but that doesn’t mean we were like brothers or anything. We worked at a consulting company together and were on a lot of the same assignments. That meant travel and lots of evenings on the road where we didn’t have much to do except have a drink and talk while we were in a restaurant or lounge watching a ball game or whatever.  
We were almost the same age, and neither of us had any close relatives. Parents were dead, mine earlier than his, and no siblings. He had never married, and girlfriends came and went for Trey because of being on the road so much.”  
Jean asked, “What about you? Lots of girlfriends? You said you were divorced. What about the ex-wife?”  
I said, “The divorce was acrimonious. We haven’t talked since it was finalized, but I guess she was told I’m dead. There was an insurance policy where she was the beneficiary, so she probably preferred that to me being alive.”  
Jean asked again, “No girlfriends to cry when you died?”  
I said, “I dated a couple girls while Trey and I worked together. Not as many as Trey did. I was gun-shy after the divorce. Nothing serious. I doubt any knew about the funeral or would have felt the need to go to the service.”  
Jean asked, “So what happened?”  
“Trey and I took new jobs at about the same time. I left about a week ahead of him, and Trey intended to take about six weeks off. He liked the ‘adventure’ stuff. He mountain biked and scuba dived and ran trails and Iron Man events, all that stuff. He stayed scraped up or bruised. And he was pretty stubborn; if someone told him something was dangerous, it was almost a guarantee he would try it.  
So actually we had given each other power-of-attorney, because we didn’t have anyone else who gave a hoot about us in the world. Trey was supposed to call me when he came back from Peru, visit for a couple of days before he went to his new job. I never heard from him, and my calls and letters trying to find him got nowhere.  
Over Christmas and New Year’s, the office I was at practically shut down, almost everybody took the time off. I said I had to wrap up things back where I used to live, and went to Peru. There was an outfit that had trail runs in the Andes and tours of ruins and things. I found the people that had known Trey . . . that ran the tour things.  
They weren’t bad people, but it took three days to get them to finally tell me anything of substance. They had liked Trey; everyone did. He had disappeared when he went off alone one morning when there was nothing planned until afternoon. According to them, they had looked for him but never found anything. They decided to not say anything because Trey could be dead and they might be blamed, or he could have disappeared on his own for some reason, or maybe he had been mugged by a local.”  
I was quiet until Jean asked, “How did you find his body?”  
“Well, after getting that much, we talked and the next day they took me out to see where Trey had done his tours and runs. There was a trail that went up a mountain, and one that branched off a little way up it. The guide said he had warned Trey not to use it, the way was steep and dangerous. Plus I think it was used pretty much by just smugglers.  
Naturally, it was just what Trey would have done on his own. About three-quarters of a mile up the trail, there was a place where the trail was broken up and crumbling. We had some rope, and I went down a couple hundred feet and could see something, a spot of blue. We had to come back the next day and it took six of us to recover the body. We buried Trey in the village cemetery, I took his possessions including his passport, and was at work on the Monday after New Year’s.”  
We drove, the wind less buffeting, both of us quiet. I asked, “How far to go?”  
Jean said, “Hour, maybe. So what happened that made you decide to become Trey?”  
I said, “That’s the part you don’t really need to know. But I’d figured out already something was weird with the new company. I’m not going to tell you anything about it. But I figured out it was washing illegitimate money. They thought they were pretty sophisticated, some lawyers had set everything up, but I guess organized crime is light on CPA’s.  
So they had things in a mess, didn’t even know what they had or where because of just having some low-skilled bookkeepers. By the time I about had things straightened out, I knew more about it than my bosses or anyone else. And figured out if I went to the FBI it would be a waste of time and I’d probably get killed in the process. The only way out was to let them think they had killed me. And if they find out I’m alive, it’s just how quick they can track me down.”  
Quiet again for a while, until Jean said, “There’s something else, isn’t there?”  
After ten seconds, I said, “I took a bunch of their money with me. If they figure out I’m alive, they’ll want it back and not ask nicely.”  
I didn’t tell her about the girl I’d taken with me.  
Near Gainesville, Jean said, “I need gas. Are you hungry? There’s a diner I like I think two exits up.”  
No sign of daybreak yet, but it looked like clouds were breaking up. I could see a little moonlight and some stars now and then. We went off, got gas, and I had Jean run through the self-service car wash to make sure any trace of what had been in the bed was rinsed away.  
We ate, the sun was up we got back in the truck, and we were close to the farm where Jean’s equine patients were waiting when she spoke, kind of tentatively.   
“These are regular clients. I’m going to introduce you as a friend. A boyfriend.”   
A pause, and then, “Mary asked if we were sleeping together. Do we look like that? I guess we need to in front of people on this trip.”  
Treacherous ground here. “It isn’t hard for me to act like I’m interested in you, Jean. Or crazy about you, like Mary said. I’ve been trying to keep you at arm’s length because of my past. I told you what kind of danger it could put you in.”  
Jean said, “I think that’s irrelevant. You don’t remember three guys who stuck guns in our face?”  
Her clients seemed pretty convinced we were in a relationship, and I learned what tool to hand her and how to hold a bridle when she said to. The lady at the desk of the motel we checked into seemed convinced enough, or else didn’t care in the least. We both got a shower, Jean changed, and we went to dinner.  
There was a plaza close by with some shopping and a drugstore. We were finished and back in the room before nine o’clock.  
This was the time we both had been thinking about, in a motel with just a king bed and each other. Jean slipped into the bathroom after I’d brushed my teeth, coming out in a nightgown that was probably not what she usually wore when she was alone. Not Victoria’s Secret, but something I think she found while I was buying jeans and a pair of boots.  
It wasn’t as awkward as I’d anticipated; Jean came into my arms and we kissed and I held her, until she broke the embrace and turned down the bed. We crawled in and Jean slid into my arms, a natural fit.  
I never knew when, but after both of us being up maybe forty hours, instead of the intimacy of sex we shared the intimacy of our breathing in rhythm as we both fell asleep.  
Wednesday, I clumsily helped on her three calls, and we avoided any conversation about my past. But in the room of a different hotel, instead of sex, Jean wanted to talk.   
“Okay, you don’t want to tell me about your past. Tell me what you plan on for a future.”  
Jeez, not what I’d really expected.  
“Well, ummm, I’d kind of thought that if anything like this happened, like the other night, I’d leave right away. I’ve got a couple plans on how I’d disappear.”  
Jean said, “But that’s changed. You don’t have to disappear. What about us now?”  
I said, “Uhh, I haven’t thought that through, I guess. It could still be really dangerous for you. It would still probably be smart if you didn’t get very involved with me.”  
Yeah, I really should have thought that response through.  
Jean was icy when she said, “So I help you get rid of the bodies, help you keep your phony ID and life intact, and I’m in a hotel bed with you while you think I shouldn’t get involved. I kind of thought I was already involved. But you seem to have some commitment issues, don’t you?”  
“Well, uh, that’s not what I meant. You know I don’t want to risk you getting hurt,” I said, and compounded the mistake by trying to hug her.  
She said, “Oh, let’s see what you did mean. You meant I’m handy to help you out when you’re in trouble, and you expect me to keep on helping you out in a hotel bed. See if you think this through.”  
Jean turned over, back to me, covers pulled close and shook off my hand when I tried to touch her.  
Thursday, I saw the glances between two people on the horse farm when Jean was frosty with me. Oh, they definitely believed we were boy-and-girlfriend, and definitely thought we were having a fight.  
That night, at dinner when we stopped at a chain restaurant off the interstate on the way home, I apologized and said, “I’m sorry, you took me by surprise. I’ve been focusing on what could go wrong from what happened Monday night. I’m still in the mindset of staying away from people because it could be bad for them. Can we start over, and you give me some time to adjust? You know I’m attracted to you, I was right away. But everyone I’ve ever been close to has died or left. Mix it all up, and I haven’t processed it yet.”  
Jean thawed, and said, “Okay, my fault for pressing you so soon. I hadn’t thought about all that. You know I’m attracted to you, too, and hadn’t understood why you were being so stand-offish. Yes, let’s try to start over.”  
I wasn’t sure exactly where we had moved the “relationship” by the time Jean dropped me at the end of F-Dock.

   
Chapter 8

Travis McGee  
Meyer and Mary had ridden back to the marina with me, Meyer talking about going with me in the boat. It took just a little convincing that he needed to be here with Mary in case anyone came around, plus needed to put the security video DVD in my safe between the hulls that he knew how to open up.  
Mary had said, “Sorry, but someone had to make some decisions. Trey just saved all our lives, and I trust he’s got a good heart. If we can help him with a new life, it maybe doesn’t make us even, but we won’t regret it.”  
So Meyer and Mary stayed. I changed to old khaki pants, heavy socks, long sleeved shirt and a hoodie, snagging the fluorescent raincoat along with a sandwich and some junk food on the way to pulling the tarp off Munequita. I was soaked to the knees of my pants by the time the tarp was folded and stowed, ducked into the cramped cabin while the twin motors were warming up.   
I took off the raincoat, put on a lifejacket which I seldom wear, and pulled the raincoat back on over it. Back in the cockpit and driving rain, some of the food and a couple of bottled drinks went in one of the lockers because on a night like this there was no way to leave the wheel unattended for twenty seconds.  
While I had the drawer opened, I rummaged through it and found the bungee wrist cord for the kill switch and took time to re-attach it to the key. Meyer was soaking wet as he cast off for me, we waved, and I was too busy fighting the waves even between the piers to watch him go on board the Flush. Later, he told me he watched the security footage a dozen times before locking the disc in my hidey hole.  
The chop in the basin was ridiculous to be taking a small boat out. Visibility was maybe a couple hundred feet, and if I didn’t know the channel well it wouldn’t have been fun at all. Once I made the turn past the nun-buoys, which I could tell only from knowing they were riiight …there, I started feeling the difference from sheltered water to about eight-footers.   
This was still not totally open water, so it was going to be worse if I went on out. I started the turn to head up the Intercostal, then said screw it and spun the wheel to come back on course, throttling up a little for more control. This was not a trip for anyone along the inshore waterway to remember a boat as distinctive as Munequita and somebody stupid being out on a night like this.  
Turning north, the only good thing was the rain slacked off to just a steady rate and visibility picked up so I could use lights on shore to judge about how far out I was. Swells were about nine to eleven feet, I estimated, and bone-jarring as we crashed up and down. If I went out enough to get in the Gulfstream it would be rougher, so I stayed landward of it.  
In the dark and rain and wind, it was just me and the crashing into each wave that finally jolted me out of the long slide where I’d turned into a complacent, fat, old boring husk that should be shipped off to assisted living. The mind started working again, and I throttled up more, taking things right to the edge in this kind of sea.   
For half an hour I reveled in the pounding and challenging the Ripper by risking capsizing or being swamped. Tens of gallons poured in from about every third wave, the pumps working as hard as they could, while I yelled and sang songs at the top of my lungs, out of tune, until my throat was raw. Rip van McGee finally woke up and was still living.  
Because of my stupid and foolhardy speed run, somehow not breaking up in the process, I made the turn into the inlet, using the lighthouse at Pompano as my marker, ahead of schedule.  
The inlet was well sheltered, waves dropped considerably, and I was sane enough to stop the singing. Hotels and condos and expensive single family houses, then cheap commercial buildings, lined both sides of my route. Up the inlet, under the bridge, finally turning up the Canal and under more bridges.  
I was glad for the storm, visibility was terrible and I doubt anyone awake making a potty call could identify a particular boat by looking out their window. Florida along the Atlantic coast has long-since turned into just side-by-side buildings. We used to have some nice open land, useful for when you needed to pick up some bodies. There should be a wall put up on the state line keeping out new occupants. It really cramped my style to have to cruise at reduced speed for maybe fifteen miles or more before running out of 85’ x 130’ waterfront lots and finally getting to some open countryside.  
Thanks to my reckless offshore speed run, I was up the Canal way earlier than my anticipated eta, barely after 3:00 a.m. and used the handheld spotlight to get my vaguely remembered bearings. Presently I found the little landing and slid up to it at idle, Jean and Trey appeared in the light, and I tossed a line to Jean who pulled me in as I cut the engines. My berserker spell was over and I was ready to get down to business for a change.

I was back at Bahia Mar half an hour before daybreak. I’d stayed in the boat while Trey and Jean handed me six concrete blocks and lugged over the three bodies. I’d found some nylon line in a locker and started tying the blocks to the first body while Trey carried over the other two, covering all of them with a tarp as I finished.  
Trey said, “Let me have that spare gas can for a minute,” and doused the sport coat he had stuffed in a metal 55-gallon trash can, and then handed the can back to me. I’d said “I love you. Be careful,” to Jean, backed out from the ramp, and caught sight of flames from the trash can before I throttled up.  
Back out in open water with the depth finder reading seventy-two fathoms I wished Meyer or Trey were with me. The rain had slackened but heavy seas were still running, and it wasn’t easy to leave the wheel to toss the bodies overboard; I had to do them one at a time and dash back to turn the bow back into the waves.  
By the time I’d docked, enough water had sloshed around in the cockpit to wash out any physical traces of anything incriminating. The rain was over, temperature was probably low-fifties, stars were dimming, and I had everything clean, covered and shipshape, whistling while I worked, before a bright dawn broke.  
Anyone not observing the piers before daylight would never know Munequita had been away from the dock. My wet clothes were on hooks to dry, I had on dry pants and a heavy boat neck sweater, the scrambled eggs and toast I’d made were perfect, and the Blue Mountain was perking.  
The sun reflecting off the water was like off a shined-up steel breastplate. I wasn’t the least bit sleepy, but spied Meyer walking my way looking like he’d slept badly and with bags under his eyes. I poured another mug of coffee and pushed the toaster button down with two more slices in it before Meyer stepped on the mat sitting off the bong announcing his arrival.  
   
Chapter 9

Boone was wearing old gray work pants and a flannel shirt, looking more like a senior citizen ready to go shopping at Wal-Mart than a billionaire CEO. We were sitting at the island overhang in the kitchen, Boone pouring coffee.   
The day was cold by south Florida standards, and the view out the kitchen windows were bright sunshine and rapidly moving ragged clouds over the water. Boone had bought the house during the Carter recession, excellent neighborhood and a waterfront lot, about a forty percent discount from what it had been worth eighteen months previously.  
By billionaire standards, it looked like comfortably upper-middle-class instead of a mansion. He had done updates over the years and the inside was beautiful and comfortable, but you could find equally nice homes all over the country owned by people who weren’t millionaires. This house would probably go for about two-and-a-half million, but mostly because of the location and private dock.  
Pulling nine-by-twelve manila envelopes out of a drawer in the island, he was ready to get down to business. Boone said, “I’ve got business problems that I never expected, and no way to solve them in any regular way. Everything I’ve got ‘bout it is in the envelopes, same thing in both of yours.”  
I was flipping through the three-quarter inch stack of papers and photos that were clipped together with one of those heavy binder clips. At least three fire investigation reports, some financial analysis with charts that looked like comparing stock positions. There was a report on another company, La Ropa SA, and detail on several individuals, along with photos of a handful of people. One was a handsome man, in his thirties, Hispanic features, looking like an oily soap opera leading man.  
Boone said, “Thought I’d run into about every kind of problem you can run into in this bidness. But I think this isn’t some fat woman pretending she wrenched her back trying on a size 6 in the dressing room. I’ve fought shyster lawyers and competitors, the damned government from IRS to OHSA to EPA to the Commerce Department. I’ve fought the stupid Chamber of Commerce over wanting to help ship jobs to China, and even customers who don’t give a damn if something tears up the second time they wash it as long as it was the cheapest crap they could buy instead of wanting something that is worth a tinker’s damn.  
But I think this is maybe the South American Mafia. And I’m getting old and starting a gang war probably ain’t all that smart. I need some smart young fellas like you two that can th’ank up an elegant way to stuff it up Mister Garry-mo’s oily little ass.”  
Meyer knew Boone was messing with him, since they were the same age and Meyer’s birthday was one day before Boone’s.   
He asked Boone, “Exactly how is Guillermo causing problems?  
Boone said, “Garry-mo showed up in Florida ‘bout two years ago, head of the U.S. segment of La Ropa. The whole company is only about seven years old, started in Colombia and is all over Central and half of South America. They claim to be in touch with the wants of the Latin consumer, especially young women in the fourteen to thirty-five demographic.  
Must be totally in touch, because to grow that fast every damn woman in about twenty countries would have three walk-in closets stuffed full of their hoochie-momma clothes. They must be drowning in cash, because they approached me and wanted to buy out WaitesCo and take it private.  
Since I turned them down, Garry-mo’s been buying up shares of WaitesCo every time there’s a dip in the stock price. And we’ve had three cases of arson, with stories by some financial guru talking up how much it’s going to hurt us. The stock dropped a few points and Garry-mo made big buys each time.”  
Meyer said, “I read about the fires. I didn’t see anything saying they were arson.”  
Boone said, “Yeah, we didn’t go public about it. Copies of the reports are in your envelopes. Had each looked at by the local fire departments, but got an insurance investigator and a fancy national arson expert to look at them. We lost half an outlet mall north of Cincinnati, a men’s clothing plant with significant damage in West Pepperell, Georgia, and one of our stand-alone women’s shops burned down in Virginia, close to Washington. They all said definitely arson, but what they called eloquent. Now I need an eloquent way to stuff it back up his butt.”  
I didn’t like the sounds of it. Fingerprints all over it sounded like drug money being laundered and arson wouldn’t be the potential worst thing they would do.  
“Excuse my ignorance, but don’t you own a controlling interest?”  
I was in over my head when the numbers got above seven figures.   
Boone said, “Yeah, but it looks like they’re setting up for a proxy fight. And if they have an apparently unlimited amount of cash, they can eventually win. The Golden Rule, boy. Him wit’ the gold, rules. And I don’t think they want no benevolent dictatorship.”  
Meyer asked, “Stupid question, but have you ever considered taking the buyout? I assume they would pay a premium over the market. You’ve spent almost fifty years building WaitesCo; you could cash out and enjoy it.”  
“Waaa’l, I might have considered it if there was real Amuricans who wanted to continue building a company the right way here,” said Boone, taking his time over the rim of his coffee cup. “But to be honest, probably not then. And sure not to no Mafia. Actually, I kinda been planning on hanging on a few more years and either dying and leaving it to Madison, or setting her up as COO or CEO before they declare me incompetent and ready for the Home.”  
Meyer perked up and asked, “How is Madison? I haven’t seen her since the last economic trend review we did.”   
Boone practically puffed up with pride, like any grandparent but more so. “She’s doing great! Matter of fact, I asked her to get here around four o’clock. I was going to call you to come in and give me a look-see back in June or July, but Madison asked me to wait. She’s got all sorts of ideas about how we need to evolve and stay fresh, already started implementing some on the e-commerce stuff. She wanted to get everything all down pat to impress you. She thinks you’re the cat’s ass when it comes to all that statistical analysis and stuff, Meyer. I’d had it on my calendar to call you on the fifteenth, but decided it couldn’t wait after this last arson last Thursday night.”  
I asked, “Isn’t she still pretty young to be thinking about turning it over to her?”  
“Madison turned twenty-one ‘bout two weeks ago,” Boone said. “You knew Janine passed away when Madison was ten?”  
I nodded, remembering that David had gone in the Marine Corp and died in a training accident about two years before his wife, Janine, had died when she went into allergic shock during what was supposed to be a routine outpatient procedure.  
Boone said, “After that, Madison was with me wherever I went for almost three years. I hired tutors to home school her; we went to the office and stores and mills together every day. She did school work in her own office next to mine with the door open so she could see me. By the time everybody thought she was ready for public school when she was twelve, I think she knew as much about the business as I did.”  
Meyer said, “Didn’t you tell me she graduated Florida when she was nineteen?”  
“Yep, triple major, three years. I saw an IQ score she had to take, a 161. Marketing, business, and statistics majors in three years. And you know what else?”  
Boone was busting to tell us, so I asked, “What?”  
He said, “We have six stores in the Gainesville area. I had some of the regional managers call and tell me we had a superstar assistant manager at one. You know some about how we train managers, right? Most people don’t like hiring really good people, they feel threatened. We train managers to look for those people, all it does is reflect good on them and we make sure everybody gets rewarded.  
All the store managers get a pretty good bit of leeway in customizing their stores, as long as they stay in keeping with the corporate outlines or get approval from Regional. This store is almost always in the top quartile, but the last three months their numbers had exploded. Me and the regional guy did a conference call with the store manager, and she said it was because of a new hire. Girl was a student at UF, started as a part-time sales associate, made her the assistant manager in six weeks, and said the girl was ready for her own store.  
So we decided we needed to fly up and see this girl, and w’en I walked in she turned around and said ‘Hi, Grandad, what’re you doin’ here?’ Madison had used some of her mama’s old ID to get some fake stuff that said she was twenty instead of seventeen. She did college and was the only part-time general manager in the company, and still holds almost all store records for the chain.”  
We hashed around some of the reports in the envelopes a few minutes, when we heard the garage door go up and Madison came in through the mud room. Picture a Florida blonde beach girl with huge brown eyes, dressed casually in a style that said effortless and class.   
“Love you, Granddad.” Madison gave him a hug and kiss on the cheek before turning to Meyer and said, “Meyer! I didn’t know you were the ‘business meeting’ Granddad was talking about. How are you?” He got a hug, too.  
She said, “I’m so excited to see you. We’ve got a bunch of projects I want to show you, but I wasn’t expecting you today. My plans were to surprise you in a couple of months and you could see everything at once and how we’re trying to keep fresh and in touch with our target market.”  
Madison turned to me and extended a hand, saying, “I’m Madison Waites.”  
I said, “Travis McGee,” shaking her hand. “I knew your dad when he was in college and met your mother a little.”  
She twisted up her lips and looked like she was thinking hard. “Mr. McGee. Travis. Granddad has mentioned you. And Meyer says you’re a friend of his. You’re the guy who helped Dad with all that trouble just before he finished school, aren’t you? He never talked to me about it, but I was just eight when he died. Mom told me stories about Dad all the time, and she told me about that. I think they had just started dating just before that all happened. Thank you for what you did.”  
“That was a long time ago. Your dad stood out as someone special even back then. I was sorry to hear about what happened to both your parents.”  
That was an understatement. Meyer and I had been at their wedding. A young couple that everybody could see would be another generation of the best of America. I’d expected David to spend a few years in the Marines and eventually take over WaitesCo.  
Probably lots of people around Boone had the same superstition, that he’d used up all the luck in that family. He had been incredibly successful in an ultra-competitive industry building a reputation for quality and being a square shooter.  
Boone had told me years ago his wife, Catherine, had a tough delivery with David and he would be their only child. Boone and Catherine felt they bonded deeper with him than most parents did with a child. Just as things had started to break in a big way as far as business went, Catherine suddenly had a two month illness and passed away.  
David was in high school then, and he and Boone had drawn even closer. Then, just a year or so after the IPO and being the newest multi-billionaire in the country, the training accident snatched away David. Janine and Madison moved in with Boone, and then Janine died just after the expansion into commercial real estate had paid off when the economy bounced.  
He had pulled Madison even closer; the two of them had been inseparable for almost three years. Meyer told me she had been in the room every time he saw Boone, and even in board meetings, having her own seat at the table where she took notes and observed each of the board members.  
Never expressed, I knew Meyer and I both hoped Fate and the Ripper had balanced the scales, extracting payment in lives of good people to pay for material success. Extending to three generations would be cruel beyond bearing.  
Madison said, “Granddad and I tend to eat early. You’ll stay for dinner, won’t you? It will be shrimp scampi and linguine tonight. We can talk over dinner.”  
We accepted, and it was almost 7:30 when Madison walked us out.  
Standing in front of Miss Agnes, she said, “Granddad is really upset about this. Please don’t do anything that will make it worse for him. I know he wants me take over the company, and I think we should be able to fend off a hostile takeover, but I don’t want anything to happen to him. If we lose in a proxy fight, he has a lot of money and I’ll get him to enjoy some of it. Call me before you do anything.”  
 

 

Chapter 10

Jean stepping on the mat and the bong woke me from my morning nap. I’d been awake most of the night, seeing Trey pause on the dock looking at his phone, checking the security system he’d installed. When I’d noticed it on the DebbyK and he briefly showed me how it transmitted wirelessly and he could check it any time, I’d felt like a caveman with my stupid little security system.  
It had been cool in 1966, being able to open a hinged box on the pier and seeing if any of the green lights had turned red, signaling someone unauthorized had been on the Flush and might still be there. It had saved my life a few times, but the last time there had been a red light had been over a decade ago.  
“Breakfast?” I asked as I opened the fridge.  
Jean said, “It’s lunch time. Sorry to wake you.”  
Then silence, unlike her, as she accepted a glass of orange juice and slid into her usual seat.  
Trying to get the conversation rolling, I asked, “How did your calls go?  
She said, “Fine, mostly, had to put one mare down. Other than that the calls went fine. Have you seen Trey?”  
I said, “No. How are you two getting along?”  
I really didn’t want to know. Jean was an adult, and I wanted her to have a stable relationship like I’d never had. But that didn’t mean I wanted details of her three days with Trey, who I didn’t believe in as much as Mary did.  
Her response was, “Okay. We’re getting along.”  
No elaboration, so we ate in silence.  
Jean cleared and washed dishes, asking, “How are you? Eating okay? Taking all your meds?”  
I said, “I’m fine. Even started exercising regularly again. I can jog almost a quarter mile now before I have to walk. I had forgotten how I like working up a good sweat. When this cold snap breaks, I’m going to start swimming again.”  
Not much interest on her part, and all I got was a kiss on the cheek and “Okay, bye. See you later.”  
I watched her start down the pier toward the DebbyK, stop, turn around and stride to the parking lot.  
Meyer showed up presently. He said, “I see Jean and Trey got back. How do they seem?”  
“Strained. At least Jean. Haven’t seen Trey.”  
Looking out the window, Meyer said, “Looks like he’s headed this way now. Use him to create a crack?”  
My voice was steady enough, but I took a few seconds to answer. “Yeah. Trey.”  
Meyer said, “That idea is going to need a lot of people and resources.”  
I said, “Boone can afford it, he would pay lawyers five times as much trying to handle a hostile takeover. I’m worried if Trey can afford it.”

Trey started, “Thanks for everything all of you are doing. Especially thanks to Mary. I never had anyone speak up for me like that. And all of you are taking a huge risk. My plan was to leave right away if anything ever happened, especially if other people were in the spotlight, too.”  
He took a deep breath, and continued, “I’d like to change my mind and stay. After what you’ve done, it seems ungrateful to leave. If you will have me, I’d like to stay here.”  
I said, “Looks like that decision was made the other night. Why would you think about leaving now?”  
Trey looked relieved until Meyer asked, “How are you and Jean?”  
“We’re…uh…uh, good. We’re good.”  
Trey looked like he was trying to talk himself into believing it.  
A pause before Meyer said, “Actually, Trey, we have a job we were wondering if you were interested in. Not a permanent job, but helping with what we do sometimes.”  
Trey said, “If you need help, I’ll do anything I can. I would have done that even before what’s happened. What do you need?”  
I said, “You know I’m a salvage consultant, and Meyer helps me sometimes. But it isn’t always marine salvage. I work for people who need something recovered, usually something stolen from them, who don’t have any other recourse. When the police or lawyers can’t do anything, I take jobs like that if I think I can recover something worthwhile, and I keep fifty percent of any recovery. That used to sound like a lot, but attorneys in a lot of cases actually wind up with more than that. I’ve done well enough, and since it was high risk, I’ve always taken my retirement in chunks instead of expecting to retire on Social Security.”  
Trey nodded, “Okay. Do you do it all legal?”  
“People we’re trying to recover things from aren’t really all that nice and don’t worry about legalities. Clients have already usually exhausted legal means. We’d rather not be outside the law, but sometimes legal and justice are two different things.”  
Got a nod, and Trey said, “Okay. Given what I’ve done, I’m not about to object.” No elaboration.  
Meyer cleared his throat, pulled out one of the envelopes from Boone and said, “Here’s the situation,” and started outlining the facts. When he finished, Trey was looking at the photo of Ricardo Guillermo and the girl, Annarella Phillippe.   
Trey said, “I actually was in Peru more than just the time I was trying to find out what happened to Trey. Several months, off and on, I was in that little town where I was becoming Trey, and I got friendly with some of the people, including a couple of the guides on the adventure tours they ran. Not bad people, Trey had gone off on a run of his own on a trail they had warned him about, or claimed to have warned him was dangerous. They were afraid to report his disappearance and had looked for him themselves. The two of them were with me when we looked up that trail, it sounded like something Trey would do—go where he was told not to.  
Anyway, in a little town like that evenings are usually spent around the cantina listening to lots of stories. The people I’m talking about weren’t in the drug trade, but there were always lots of stories. I think Guillermo is a guy they told some of the stories about.”  
I asked, “What kind of stories?”   
Trey said, “Supposedly, Guillermo was smart and educated and was supposed to be the next generation going legit. He wanted to be a movie star, and the claim was he bought his way into some movies and TV shows. He got a reputation as a pretty boy, not as a real hard core druggie, and they nicknamed him La Hollywood, using the feminine article to kind of sneer at him.  
The story was that he killed ten or twelve people himself. Shot a couple, had the rest kidnapped and supposedly worked them over himself about every nasty way you can think of. Nobody wanted to call him La Hollywood after that. And I think the girl is the daughter of one of the cartel families.”  
I said, “The investigative report Boone had done says she wants to be the next Shakira. They had a DVD of what she has done. Let’s just say it’s a good thing her family was paying to sponsor most of it. She models for La Ropa. We think Guillermo is supposed to be like her guardian, but seems to consider himself more of a boyfriend or fiancé.”  
Meyer said, “Big age difference. Guillermo has claimed to be 39 for at least three years. The girl is twenty-five and apparently has some hot pants, but any man who she shows interest in gets warned off or beaten up. We think she’s the pressure point.”   
He went on to explain our somewhat vague ideas on a starting point. Trey looked doubtful. Hearing it out loud, I was kind of doubtful.  
Trey fidgeted and rolled up the papers he had been scribbling concentric circles on with a ball point. “You know you are talking about trying to scam some very heavyweight bad people here, don’t you? If they figure out you’re messing with them and take it badly, it can be from a warning, like your boat catching fire, to a bullet being a good thing instead of them deciding to make it hurt before you die.”  
I said, “We understand. We’ve dealt with some people like this before, even if it started out as an accident. And our intent is not to necessarily try to interrupt their activities, that’s for law enforcement. We just want them to do it some place other than going after WaitesCo.”  
Trey nodded and went back to scanning the material spread out on the table. The picture of the girl looking up at him, and how the women in the marina kept binoculars handy to look at Trey was giving me a glimmer of an idea.  
“Just thinking out loud here,” I said, “but Miss Annarella here wants to be famous so she’s recognized just by one name, right?”  
Meyer said, “Right, based on what we know. Even if it’s a made up name.”  
“And Ricky is the jealous Latin type, right?” I thought I saw a little winding path. “And he’s jealous of other men Annarella talks to, and he wants to be a movie star himself, and they’re using her to promote La Ropa, his baby for the cartel, right? What if we mix all that up together and see if anything boils over?”  
Meyer said, “You’ve got something in your head, but I need a little more.”  
I said, “Trey’s a good looking guy, right? Ever wanted to be a movie star and get the girl?”  
Something in my expression had Trey trying to physically back up, but he was already in a corner bench at the table. “Ohhh, noooo, uh-uh, no, no, no. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but uh-uh.”  
“Oh, come on,” I said. “It’ll be fun. She’s a gorgeous girl. Don’t you like fiery-tempered beautiful women?”   
Chapter 11

We took Trey along and Jean was supposed to join us after leaving work. Boone and Madison were waiting on us. Two minutes after being introduced, Madison said, “Let me show you around, Trey.” They disappeared for thirty minutes, appearing once through the window going on board Boone’s sport fisherman. I’d never been offered the tour of the house and grounds; maybe Trey looked more interested in real estate than I did.  
Jean rang the bell, Meyer answered the door, and the four of us were in the kitchen when Madison and Trey came back in. I saw Trey give Jean a tentative smile, and Jean arched an eyebrow in response, as Madison maneuvered them into seats on the opposite side of the island by a hand on his arm.  
Meyer summarized our conceptual idea. “Essentially, we hope that if Guillermo is out of the picture in trying to take part of their organization legit, they lose interest in WaitesCo, the interest seems to be all his. The idea is to drive a wedge between him and what he is doing in Miami, playing around, while his bosses are hard at work running the real business back home.”  
Boone said, “Sounds great. Exactly how do you find a wedge to use?”  
Meyer said, “We think it’s the girl, Annarella Phillippe. She wants to be famous. Guillermo wants to be a famous actor and control the girl and be a drug cartel big wheel. I postulate that’s too diverse a set of desires to manage by anyone.  
We set it up that Annarella starts getting the fame, while separating and isolating her from the lifestyle and people she’s used to. We see if Guillermo gets jealous and reacts badly toward her. Annarella’s father probably will not like his daughter being ill-treated by Guillermo.”  
Madison asked, “So how do you want to make her famous?”  
Meyer explained what we had vaguely sketched out, including, “We think Trey makes the personal connection with Annarella. Maybe it helps make Guillermo jealous and turns up the heat.”  
We could all see the wheels starting to turn in Madison’s head, pulling out a legal pad and firing off questions as she scribbled, her mind racing ahead of the questions. Boone sipped at his coffee with a little grin on his face over the rim of the cup. I caught his eye and he winked at me, letting Madison run with her ideas.  
At one point, Meyer said, “We need to be sure to catch Annarella’s interest in not only the proposed production, but in Trey, also.  
Madison scooted back, looked at Trey, and said, “I don’t think that will be hard. Why don’t we get together tomorrow and work on that, Trey? We just need to give her an image that goes with the whole concept. You’ll catch her interest easily, but we’ll make sure you just have everything that goes with it. Are you like so many men that hate to shop? We’ll make it short. And you’ll need the right vehicle. I bet you’ll like shopping for that better than clothes.”  
Conversation between Jean and Trey had been stilted since they came back from the three day trip. It was made worse on that visit to Boone’s.  
Jean and Trey had walked out ahead of Meyer and me. I’d heard, “Jean. Jean! Can we talk later? I can come over, or we can make dinner on the DebbyK.”  
Then all I caught was, “Not tonight. Maybe you can invite Madison. She could buy you dinner first and you would owe her for that, too.”

A small crew was hired, a very few of them partially brought into the plan, and Jean knew of a small ranch that we promptly leased. The funding for Round-Up Productions, LLC, and everything else was coming from Boone. Madison had the idea to call an assistant director that had made some of the WaitesCo commercials, and all we needed was interest from Annarella.  
   
Chapter 12

Three weeks later, South Beach nightclubs were going full blast despite the second cool snap after a few warmer days. Lights of neon and pastel colors outnumbered the white lights of all sizes, from popcorn lights to spotlights. Saturday night was in full swing where the beautiful people gathered, complaining about sixty-one degrees.   
Sunday morning, I should say, since it was almost one-thirty in the a.m., about when Annarella liked to shake her groove thing. It was also apparent Meyer and I were too old to be cool enough to even get into a club. Without Jean along and flashing a roll of cash, implying we were sugar daddies here to spend on South Florida young chickies, we would still be standing on the sidewalk.  
Inside, a dark interior blasted by irregular light patterns made everyone look garish; who could tell what a person really looked like? Most women made up for it by seeing how much skin they could show. The idiot techno-synch music alternated with worse rap music. The saving grace was the music drowned out the vulgar lyrics.  
We had managed to wiggle onto stools around a table the size of a saucer and had a second round of drinks we had ordered without having finished the first ones. Miss Annarella made her grand entrance about the time the waitress was charging us triple what the drinks should have been.  
Hoochie-mamma clothes were a good description, but if a woman ever had the body for them, it was this girl. Her attitude was clear that the clothes should consider themselves fortunate to touch her skin. Annarella and entourage swept through to a table on a raised platform to the side and slightly behind the particular bar we were seated near.  
Two girlfriends, three male bodyguards, and a private table where all three women immediately pulled out phones and buried their faces in the tiny screens, apparently sending messages to other electronic “friends” who had to live vicariously through the three girls, since their followers couldn’t be in an overpriced, overloud, overbearing bar to bury their own noses in a phone while paying outrageous prices to do so.  
The three bodyguards looked casually around, obviously not expecting anything other than the usual babysitting duty. Seeing Trey coming in, I got up and headed to the bar, casually using my chin to point toward Annarella’s table as I picked a spot at that end of the bar and ordered a Plymouth on the rocks.   
Trey was drawing looks as he strolled up, picking out a place near me at the bar and ordering a longneck Bud. Besides being handsome, he was the only person in the place wearing cowboy boots and a black Stetson. Black jeans and tee shirt, with a blue chambray shirt that was tight across the chest, made him look like a cowboy who had parked his horse at the wrong saloon.  
I saw the young black guys notice him as he walked across the room and watched as they changed their paths to put an extra six inches between them. The Latino guys didn’t move over, but the body language was wary even though Trey had done nothing but walk in and order a beer.  
Receiving his beer, Trey turned around, leaned against the bar, and used a finger to push the front of his hat up. Women were noticing, obviously, and I could tell Annarella and her two friends had, too. It was about fifteen seconds before a pretty young twenty-something with store-bought breasts was in Trey’s personal space, twirling her hair with one hand.   
He chatted politely for a few seconds, brushed her off in a nice way, and repeated the procedure with a platinum blonde a moment later. Trey excused himself as he noticed the waitress coming back from the raised table, motioning the waitress over and saying something I couldn’t hear. The girl nodded and turned to put an order in at the bar while Trey scribbled something on a piece of paper off her pad.   
A minute later, the waitress took a Bud longneck and the note to Annarella, nodding toward Trey. It looked like they already had champagne glasses and a bottle they were working on. Annarella read the note, the two girlfriends leaned in to read it and giggled as they all looked at Trey. He raised his bottle in her direction and stayed leaning back and relaxed.  
She obviously expected Trey to approach the table, but when he showed no sign of doing so, Annarella picked up the beer and note and walked over in platform stripper shoes.  
Annarella said, “Thank you for the drink. I haven’t ever had anyone send me a beer. Are you a cowboy?”  
Her English sounded less accented than I expected, and more cultured.  
Trey said, “Hi, I’m Joey Cassidy. I’ve seen a cow from the back of a horse before, so I guess you can call me a cowboy. Not meaning to be rude, but I wanted to be sure someone told you how sensational you look before the day ended.”  
The girl practically blushed, something I hadn’t expected, either. I kept an ear on their conversation, or as best as possible given the ambient noise, but an eye on the three bodyguards. They were acting antsy, more as the couple talked a few minutes.  
Annarella had moved in between us, her side against the bar, Trey turned sideways to face her, faces close together and in each other’s personal space. I heard her ask, “What do you do other than ride horses, cowboy?”  
Trey said, “Actually, I’m pretending to be an actor right now. A TV guy saw me in a little local play I was in to help out a couple friends who needed someone to fill in a role as a cowboy. Type casting, it wasn’t much of a stretch.” He laughed and took a swig, saying, “So here I am by accident in a TV show being a cowboy in Florida.”  
Annarella said, “Oh, really? You’re an actor in a show, and all by accident? Which show?”  
He said, “This is a four episode pilot set on a ranch upstate some. The fellow who is producing it has the location rented and all, and has some people putting money into making these to see if it can get picked up, probably by a cable channel. They’re trying to fill the last of the cast this week, that’s why I’m here. They’re trying to find someone I have chemistry with. Did you read my note?”  
Annarella said, “So that’s what you meant. ‘Do you believe in chemistry at first sight?’ I thought it was just a line you told all the girls.”  
“No, ma’am, I only tell a beautiful woman that makes me catch my breath when I see her. And when I saw you, I could hardly breathe.”  
Annarella blushed and said, “Stooop it, you’re teasing me. You knew I’m an actress and singer, didn’t you?”  
Trey asked, “Really? I didn’t know. Are you doing anything now? I just thought you were more beautiful than any actress I’ve ever seen.”  
“I’m not really acting in anything right now. I’m mostly a singer, and I’m trying to break into acting,” Annarella said. “I’ve mostly done some videos for my music. And I model for La Ropa clothes. Are they really looking for someone? Would I maybe have a chance at it?”  
Trey pulled out his wallet and dug through it for a business card, handing it to Annarella. “I don’t make those kind of decisions, but I’m supposed to be at the auditions in case they like somebody and want me to read some lines with them to see how we fit. Call the number on the card and tell them I wanted them to give you an audition. Uh-uh, don’t think it means you get anything just because of me. They’ve got auditions lined up all day Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday. If you get it, it’s all because of you.”  
Annarella was studying the card, saying, “Round-Up Productions, LLC. What does LLC mean?”  
Trey grinned and said, “I thought you knew that part, Annarella. Ladies Love Cowboys.”  
She was grinning back and tapped him gently on the chest with her fingertips, then held his arm with the same hand. “You do tell that to all the girls, don’t you? Maybe we do, but you don’t have to be so smug about it. Are you going to ask me to dance or go ride a horse?”  
Trey said, “Actually, I’m going to ask you to scoot right over there behind this gentleman. Your boyfriends look like they want to dance with me first.”  
He pushed her over toward me, Annarella turning and catching sight of the first of the bodyguards almost on top of Trey. She said, “Emilio. Stop it.”  
Emilio didn’t, of course, and the heavy Spanish accent was loud enough to hear clearly even over the music. “Hey, stupid hat man! Time for you to go home. Annarella no having nuthin’ do with you. Go away stupid Yankee. Or I make you go away. I like it better that way.”  
Trey was leaning against the bar, still looking relaxed, but that was if you couldn’t read sign well, like a tracker.  
He said, “Well, there, little feller. You talk mighty funny and not very nice. I could overlook everything ‘ceptin you calling me a Yankee and insulting my hat. Maybe you better run on back to wherever you came from and learn some manners before I put an American boot up your ass.”  
Emilio said, “Ha! You stupid. This not your country anymore. Miami not been America a long time. You stupid as your hat, and going smash you both.”  
Annarella was digging nails into my arm and saying, “Don’t. Don’t,” but her voice was so low I could hardly hear her, even with a three second pause in sound tracks blaring over the speakers.  
Emilio started a long, slow, looping right hand. Not very good bodyguard material. Trey turned sideways with his left shoulder facing Emilio and offset to him a little, brought up his arms crossed at the wrists, palms out, and just pushed Emilio’s punch out of the way and forcing him off balance.  
Trey kicked sideways with the right boot, catching Emilio in the shins and sweeping his feet out from under him. Emilio landed on all fours and had insult added to injury when Trey kicked him square in the butt.  
The second guy was looking at Emilio having a boot put up his ass and reacted way too late to stop Trey’s right from breaking his nose, making the blood spray. The third bodyguard was out of immediate reach and backed off a couple of steps. Annarella had her hands to her mouth. Before anything else could happen, four extremely large men without necks showed up and started yelling, “Break it up!”  
Three of the bouncers started hustling Emilio and his buddies out one direction, Annarella and the other girls included. One of them pointed Trey out the front, who was making it clear he was cooperating. He turned back, caught Annarella’s eye, pointed to the card in her hand and mimicked making a call. I saw her nod.  
   
Chapter 13

We held sixteen auditions before Tuesday at two o’clock in the Cadillac Hotel when Jack Holden was asking Annarella to prepare to do a few lines of a script and be ready to change to the other two outfits each actress wannabe had been asked to bring.   
Jack said, “That was good, Miss Phillippe. We’d like you to work with our camera guys for a few minutes and let them get some video and stills, then change to another outfit you brought and let’s try that second scene in the script you have. Is Phillippe Spanish or Latin in origin?”   
Annarella said, “No. Not really. It’s my stage name.”  
Jack said, “That’s fine, you did really well. We’re going to get the photos and a little tape now, then I want you to read with Joey.”  
After another change of the hoochie-mamma clothes she had brought, Annarella and Trey did a thirty second scene. Meyer, Madison, me, and two techs were in another room watching the feed, keeping out of sight of Annarella and any of the other actresses. As a complete babe in the woods as far as knowing anything about acting, I thought the temperature in the audition room must have gone up about twenty degrees from the steaminess between Annarella and Trey.  
I guess Jack thought so, too, because he said, “Good, that was really good by both of you. I bought the chemistry. Okay, give us a couple minutes Miss Phillippe, just relax.”  
The camera stayed on, and Annarella visibly sagged as she exhaled. The sound was off, but we saw Trey move in close and gave her a little hug, supporting her, then the two of them chatting and Annarella laughing with him while holding Trey’s arm. Madison stirred beside me and I heard a soft snort that I doubt Madison even realized she had made.  
We saw Jack come into the frame and say something, beckoning Annarella into the next room. It was wired up, too, and we already knew Jack’s lines because we had written them.  
“We liked the reading very much, Miss Phillippe. Thank you for coming. I have a serious question for you, if you don’t mind.”   
He had built her up a little, then hit her with the trepidation factor. She responded better and more calmly than I expected.  
She said, “Please, call me Annarella; please don’t be so formal. Ask whatever you must. I’ll tell you anything I can.”  
Jack said, “To be frank, you’re one of three girls we like so far for the role. I was very impressed. I know Joey likes you and you click together on camera based on what little we’ve seen. But Joey told us there was an incident Saturday night with some of your, um, friends. That concerns us if you have male friends who may be jealous and willing to incite a physical altercation. You would be on location for extended periods and they would not be allowed, and we would be worried about their actions otherwise, for example, looking for trouble with Joey or any other man you play opposite at other times. Tell me about your friends.”  
Annarella was ashen, but the voice was steady enough. “They aren’t really male friends, or boyfriends of any of my girlfriends. Actually, I guess you would describe them as bodyguards. You have to understand my family. They are quite well off, and my father is very traditional. Actually, my family would be called rich and Papa is very protective.”  
Jack said, “I see. So we potentially have a problem. I was going to ask you to return Thursday, but it sounds as if it would be difficult to work out. I’m sorry…”  
Annarella said, “Oh, please, let me come back Thursday. I really want to do good for you. Did you really think I did well? Give me a couple of days to see what I can do. Please. Please. I’ll make sure they aren’t a problem. They aren’t here today, I slipped out without them. If you pick me, I promise they won’t be around any sets or cause trouble. Please, I just need a chance.”  
Jack leaned back, crossed his arms and said, “Well… we would like to see you again to do another scene or two. Here are two short scenes, one will be with Joey, one by yourself. Be here Thursday at eleven-fifteen. I will warn you, if there isn’t enough difference between the three of you for a candidate to be a clear cut favorite, bringing outside problems to the table will weigh heavily against you. I’m looking for a reason to eliminate two of you and if your acting looks close, that would make a difference.”

Annarella looked ready to drop from exhaustion as she thanked Jack repeatedly and left. A few hours later, after three more candidates tested, several of us were eating take-out in a conference room.  
Jack said, “Too bad this isn’t a real series. Two of those girls have some ability. Even Miss Phillippe wasn’t bad. Do you think she’ll have the guts to slip away from the family and bodyguards?”  
Trey said, “The girl has a lot of guts. She comes from an environment where women are treated as servants who should be invisible, or just decorative objects.”  
Meyer said, “True, but we need her to rebel against that.”  
There was a pause, ended with Madison standing up and crossing her arms as she headed for the door. “She’ll be here without anyone. Remember, we want her isolated at the ranch.”  
Jack asked, “Sure?”  
As she opened the door to leave, Madison said, “I’m sure. She knows Joey will be here.”  
Everyone thought the comment was a little frosty.  
   
Chapter 13

A week and a half later everyone moved on location to a ranch between Ocala and Gainesville that was out in the boonies. A couple of set up shots were done on Monday afternoon, then mainly stills and video of four of the actors and actresses before everyone was loaded up and bussed to the small apartment complex rented to house everyone that Annarella would see. Some of us were at another rented place about six miles from the set, on a smaller ranch.  
Madison said, “Good shots. Send it.” The video went to another crew, this time in Gainesville.

The rest of the week was mainly actual filming just like it was a real TV show, according to Jack. What do I know about making a show? But Annarella had left a note behind that she had a job “on location” and was fine. Trey had suggested leaving her phone off, and he loaned her “his” phone she used every day to send two or three text messages saying she was fine, excited, and working hard.  
We had a clone of the phone and monitored every text. It had been stressed that if third parties showed up it meant cutting her from the cast on the spot. Everyone noticed Annarella and Trey spent a lot of time together when not filming, and everyone noticed Madison seemed irked by it. Jean checked in a couple times, but didn’t want to be around anyplace Madison was, much less Annarella.  
Saturday, supposedly an off day, Jack sent a van for Annarella at the apartments, telling her he needed her at the set. Trey rode with her.  
Jack said, “Annarella, we’ve started some early publicity. We took some of the tape we shot and asked people on the street what they thought of it. I’d like you to look at what they said.”  
The crew in Gainesville had shown still shots and video clips of Annarella in the La Ropa clothes and solicited their opinions. Annarella sat and watched their comments. Madison had designed a brutal psychological takedown. Comments were:  
“Looks great…if I met her at a club, drunk at 3:00 am…”  
“My! What a trashy-looking girl!”  
“Hoo-whee! She looks like you could have a good time if you had five dollars.”  
“If my son brought home a girl that dressed like that, I’d give him a dope slap. His mother would give him more than that. And have him tested for VD.”  
After listening to twenty similar reviews, Annarella had tears in her eyes. The tally was nineteen “Hate the look” and one “Love the look” but annotated by the guy saying, “I like my women on the trashy side.”  
Jack said, “We’ve tested a small sample on various social media, but pulled it. Response was similar, about 95% saying more or less the same. Obviously, not want we want, that the public impression is extremely negative of your image.”  
Annarella was wiping her eyes and saying, “I…I…don’t know what to say. I never wanted to give people that impression. I…I….” and that was all she got out.  
After a long silence, Jack said, “My understanding is you’re the face of La Ropa, and those clothes were all from their line. Is that right?”  
She nodded.  
Jack said, “We think it might be redeemable. We want you to work with the wardrobe people who have some selections for you, and we’ll re-shoot and re-test to see what kind of reaction we get. That needs done now.”  
Annarella said, “Yes. Can I have a few minutes?”  
Jack said, “Of course. Take a few minutes and get your composure.”  
She walked toward the paddock, and after about two seconds Trey followed her.

Trey MacLeod  
Anna had her arms crossed, hugging herself as she walked over to the plank fence. When I reached her, the tissues in her hand were makeup smeared, as was her face.  
I said, “Anna, I’m sorry. Don’t think those people are talking about you, they’ve never met you, they’re just reacting to how you were dressed.”  
I’d gotten in the habit of pronouncing my nickname for her as Ah-na. She seemed to like it, but I was the only one she let call her by the diminutive of her name—stage name.  
She turned to me and said, “You don’t understand, Joey. That is what they think about me. It’s what everyone thinks about me.”  
I said, “Not everyone. Not me. Not Jack.”  
Anna said, “When you saw me at the club, what was your first thought? A drunk pick-up at 3:00 am, right? And Jack thinks about if it would get ratings. If enough men watched to get ratings he would think my dressing like that is wonderful. But it didn’t test well, so he’s thinking about cutting me.”  
“You don’t know that,” I said. “He wants you to try to project another image.”  
Anna said, “Joey, do you not realize anything about my family? About my culture? Let me explain it to you. In my world, women in my family are purely decoration. We are there to be a pretty fixture for my father. And at some point for a fiancé and husband. I’ve been getting pressure for seven years to get engaged to a man, Ricardo Guillermo. I’m on the edge of being considered an old maid. He is like my guardian, the only reason Papa let me come to the United States. I despise him, but I’m such a good actress no one knows it. Except Mother. She’s a better actress than me by far.  
Mother understood what I would face, so she sent me to Catholic schools and made me learn English. She wants me to get out and wheedled Papa into letting me come to the States and try a career. But it had to be a ‘pretty’ career, since that’s what Papa and Ricardo would like, a glamour girl to be an ornament for them when the career is finished by the time I’m twenty-eight or thirty.  
You know my family is rich? How do you think they got that way? My father is in the drug business. My mother was seventeen when she married Papa, naïve and much younger than him. It took her years to understand. She loves Papa, and so do I, but anyone who opposes him finds out how brutal he is. I’ve only heard whispers, and what I read, no one dares say anything to me.  
I wanted to come to the States to try to get away from what my family means, and to make it on my own, so I don’t have to go back to my mother’s life. The way a woman gets power in my world is through sex. If I was ugly, I’d have no choices, no options. Because I look like my mother, I have a weapon. But Latin men don’t respect women, they only pay attention if we look like a twenty dollar prostitute. So that’s how I’ve looked. And if Jack cuts me, that’s all I’ll ever be. Maybe more than twenty dollars, but a prostitute one way or the other. And if I don’t make it now, I’ll be married to Ricardo within six months. I might as well be dead if I do.”  
She turned and headed to the little pool house that was being used for Wardrobe. I just watched.  
 

 

Chapter 14

We spent most of Sunday together. Anna wanted to go to Mass, so I drove her in the pick-up truck that went with my persona as a cowboy. Better driving than having to wrangle cows, since I wasn’t even sure what “wrangle” meant. Not being Catholic, I took my cues from her.  
Not feeling up to eating in a crowded restaurant, she asked if we could just go back to the apartments. Instead, I found a deli and had them put together an oversized picnic while Anna sat in the truck.   
Upon returning, her eyes were closed and it looked like she was silently mouthing more prayers. I didn’t ask, but as I backed out of the space she said, “I say extra prayers for Mother and Papa.” She left it at that.  
Anna asked to use my phone and sent texts to her two girlfriends, but the substance of the messages was noncommittal. We got back to the apartments a little after dark.  
Monday’s filming was strained. Wardrobe had her in very different clothes. No labels, but they were all from the new WaitesCo Amer-I-CAN Way collection that Madison had been working on, an entry line to the regular WaitesCo stores.   
All I knew about real acting was what I had done to save my skin a couple years ago, and the crash course two of Jack’s people had put me through. But I could tell she was straining and maybe the clothing change was part of that. We’d actually gotten into a relaxed and natural feeling exchange last week. That was missing today and Jack had us repeat scenes until finally giving it up as light faded.  
There was a small steam table and I filled a plate, Anna picked at a few things on her plate. Conversation was limited. We finished and I was about to ask if she would like to ride to the apartments with me when Jack called from the door of the house that doubled as his office, waving us over.  
Jack said, “Annarella, we got back some of the preliminary results from having people look at you in the clothes you tried on Saturday. Let’s look at what people thought.”   
Sixteen people this time, nine men and seven women. Some of the comments were:  
Very professional looking. Great first impression.  
Looks like a class act…  
Wow! Very pulled together. The girl looks like a knockout and looks like she has it all together.  
Is she single? I have a son I’d like to introduce her to. His current girlfriend dresses like a hooker.  
Man, out of my league…

All sixteen loved the look. Jack was grinning and asked, “What do you think?”  
Anna couldn’t talk, she was sobbing as she turned to me and I wrapped her up. After getting control of herself and hearing Jack’s approval, she asked if we could walk some before going to the apartments.  
Madison’s plan was going like a rocket sled on rails. I couldn’t help but think the photos and video of Anna in the Amer-I-CAN Way clothes reminded me of Madison. The two of them could look like sorority sisters, trading clothes out of each other’s closet and giggling about their dates for Friday night.

Anna wanted to walk quite a ways at a pretty brisk pace. The dirt road between pastures and orange groves gave up little puffs of dust with each step. Vegetation never really dies in Central Florida, but it wasn’t out of winter dormancy. The spring in her step was ahead of the spring explosion of nature.  
By the time we made the turn to the foot path along the little creek that provided part of the irrigation and drainage for the area, I came out of the light jacket I’d had on. Anna followed suite, and was ready to talk.  
“Joey, I’m so relieved. And so excited. Thank you, thank you, thank you for getting me that audition!”  
I said, “You’re welcome, but remember what I told you, it was all you doing it.”  
Anna said, “I know you said that, but you helped. If you had said you liked one of the other girls better as an actress, I know it would have tipped Jack’s decision. So I know it wasn’t all me, but this is the first time anything ever felt like it was mostly me.”  
Small talk, we made the turn in between fences separating pastures, using the green space for a path. I was sweating slightly as we came up on the back of the barn. Inside, there was an office and tack room and prep room with fridge and sink and counter.  
Anna said, “I want a drink and cool down a little.”  
We got bottles of water from the fridge, tossed jackets on the table, and I washed my hands and splashed water on my face. Toweling off, I felt Anna’s mood change while the towel was still over my face. When I looked, her blouse was mostly unbuttoned and she was using a wet washcloth to freshen up, leaving big water drops rolling down her skin.  
Anna turned toward me and put her arms around my neck and tilted up for a kiss. I intended to keep it light and disengage after a minute, but I could feel her trembling, the kiss turning needier. I’d tried to stay in my role as Joey for weeks, remembering she was a tool we were using to bring down Guillermo. For months before that I’d pretended to be Trey, and before that pretended to not understand I’d been helping launder billions of dollars.  
Both of us were maybe tired of all the pretending and needed something to share that wasn’t pretend, even if for a few minutes and maybe at least still partly pretend. Anna broke the kiss and walked toward the door while stripping off her blouse and picking up a saddle blanket.  
Grinning, she said, “Come on, cowboy. You never show a girl a good time in a hayloft before?”  
Actually, I hadn’t, but it didn’t seem like a good time to admit I wasn’t really a cowboy and wasn’t all that well acquainted with haylofts.  
The hayloft had probably seen other times two people climbed up and put a blanket and the bales of hay and straw to similar use. Later, laying on the blanket, Anna curled in to me till I could feel her heart beat, faster than mine. Synchronized for one beat, then ba-bump, ba-bump a fraction apart; the next set further apart; and each set afterwards separated more, until Anna’s heartbeat started gaining on mine, making them closer again. Fourteen beats of my heart and nineteen beats of hers until they were synched again, then out of phase again the next beat.   
Having counted the rhythm, we laid together until long after I’d stopped counting how many times our hearts had synchronized, but not long enough for me to feel like I hadn’t taken advantage of one girl, and maybe broken the trust of one or two others.  
   
Chapter 15

Travis McGee  
Jack handed me the latest batch of video that had Trey on film. We had double and triple checked that not a scrap with Trey in it existed outside of what I had locked in a largish gun safe in this house on the rented mini-ranch.  
Trey said, “We need to revise the plan. We’re putting Anna in a serious situation if Guillermo gets too wound up. The PI report says he’s gone insane over a lot less concerning Anna.”  
Madison said, “Putting Ahn-nah in a serious situation is the whole point of this. You need to be more concerned about yourself. The report said men who had shown an interest in Ahn-nah got anything from roughed up to dying in a one-in-a-million accident.”  
Jack was drumming his fingers on the conference table, finally saying, “They’ll be done with that scene in twenty minutes, and everyone has been told we’re headed to Miami in an hour. They have the weekend free before sound set work next week. If anything changes, we better bloody well decide it right now.”  
Trey and Madison were locked in a staring contest. Trey blinked first, looking away.  
Meyer scooted back and heaved himself out of the chair, saying, “Nothing’s changed. Stick with the plan.”  
Trey walked out ahead of everyone, swinging up into the big pickup truck. He had started out mad, but I saw him deliberately change his posture into the easy-going cowboy that belonged with the truck. Madison was on the porch, arms crossed, as he churned up a cloud of dust driving down the ranch road.  
I said, “Trey’s right, you know,” to Meyer and Jack.  
Meyer said, “Madison is right, too, you know. Trey and Annarella both could be in trouble. Guillermo is unpredictable and cunning. You heard what those interviews concluded, that he isn’t really very smart but has a vicious streak to make up for it.”

Jack told me about when they got back to the ranch being used as a set. Things had wrapped just as he pulled up. Annarella was all bubbly and practically ran to Trey.  
“All done for the week, Joey! Time to go home for the weekend. Don’t you want to go out dancing?”  
Trey was having trouble putting on his happy face, but said, “How about you and I go someplace for the weekend? We could leave now, I’ll buy you a toothbrush, we’ll go to New York or wherever you want for the weekend. The airport at Orlando is close and we can get a flight anywhere.”  
Annarella had an excited look but changed to an “oooohhhh” face as Trey spoke. “Oh, Joey, that sounds wonderful, but can we go another time? I’ve been gone two weeks without seeing or talking to anyone, and I just slipped out. I sent messages to Mother, but they’re worried about me in Miami. I have to go home and see them.”  
Trey said, “See who? Ricardo? You don’t owe him anything, not even letting him know you’re at home.”  
Annarella’s jaw was set when she said, “Joey, you know I’d rather spend the weekend with you, but I have other people I’m responsible to. And I’m going to have to tell him I don’t want to model for La Ropa anymore, I don’t want people to think of me as a cheap tramp or hooker. Please don’t make this harder on me.”

Saturday night Jean, Meyer, and I were back at the same club by 11:30. Annarella had made a consolation date with Trey, telling him to meet her at midnight. Trey was fifteen minutes behind us, trying to look relaxed but looking tense instead. He got a table near where Annarella and her party had been, saying something to the waitress, probably that he was meeting Annarella who was a regular.  
Midnight passed with no sign of her, Trey becoming more agitated while trying to stay outwardly calm. He ignored or brushed off four women who showed interest and nursed a beer until his phone had an incoming text. The clone-phone that Meyer was carrying showed a duplicate of the text from Annarella, and Meyer followed their exchange.  
“Can’t meet you. Be careful.”  
Trey sent back, “Where are you? Why can’t you meet me? Yo okay?  
“I’m fine. Had fght with Ricardo. At his place, can’t leave.”  
Trey sent, “Is he keeping you there. Has he hurt you?”  
“No not really. Took my regular phone. Using an old one was in a drwr. Won’t let me ghome. Scared, EWmilio look”  
The messaging stopped and Trey sent, “Anna?” three times and had started to get off his chair when her next text came in.  
“Ok, R was calling. I’m in bathrioom. Scaed wach Emilio. Love u”  
Trey tossed some bills on the table and was moving before Meyer finished reading the message. I was too slow to catch him and was a hundred feet behind as he was walking fast toward the parking lot.  
There was a loading zone this side of the parking lot, with several cars pulled up. Emilio and three of his buddies were beside the front most car.  
“Hey, Stupid Hat! You not get to sucker punch me this time. I going to bust you up good.” Emilio was loud enough for me to hear him easily, and I wondered if I could get close enough to be effective with the little flat 9mm piece of junk pocket pistol I was carrying.  
Instead of slowing or turning around, Trey increased his already-fast walk. I saw the expression on Emilio’s face start to change and he unconsciously started to back up.  
Trey went right for him, and as Emilio tried too late to get into action Trey kicked him between the legs hard enough to lift him eight inches off the ground. One of the guys to the side had caught on fast enough to try to throw a kind of feeble punch. Trey spun, the punch missing him entirely, and then he had a hand behind the guy’s head and the other hand pulling him by his shirt placket the two steps of available space before his head and Trey’s arm smashed through the driver’s window of the car.  
The third thug had his jaw open, watching, and recovered in time to try to get his hands up. Too late and too ineffective, because the guy got his nose broken again when both punches Trey threw went right through.  
Just one punk left, but this one had pulled a knife and he lunged before I could get close enough for a shot, or even get the pistol out of my back pocket.  
It turned out for the best. Trey slapped the thrust out of line, got both hands on the knife arm, and brought it down across a raised knee. He struck downward with one hand on the wrist, and the knife fell to the ground somewhere as Trey drove an elbow into the guy’s face.  
All four were down in maybe fifteen seconds, and Trey was walking as fast as he could toward where I figured his rental car was parked. I cut diagonally through the lot and flagged him down at the exit, hoping Emilio and his buds didn’t see me sliding in the passenger seat.  
“Don’t try to stop me,” Trey said, practically gritting his teeth.  
I said, “Who’s stopping you? I’m just impressed you did that without even losing your hat. What are you waiting for? Let’s go.”  
 

 

Chapter 16

By the time we cruised by Guillermo’s twice, Trey was quietly fuming but in control. I’d had him stop at a 24-hour grocery between passes and I’d bought bandages and wrapped up his arm that he’d cut when he smashed the one punk’s head into the car window.  
The place had most windows dark, but lots of exterior lights on. It was on a canal, had Guillermo’s boat docked, and an eight-foot tall wall around it. Maybe Trey was finally figuring out we needed to stick to the plan.  
I asked, “So now what? Going to crash the car through the gate? Scale the wall and beat up or kill all the guards and Guillermo? Rescue the girl and ride off double on your horse into the sunset?”  
Trey glowered and didn’t say anything. We sat a couple more minutes before I asked, “Any more texts from Annarella?”  
“No. I’m afraid to send a text in case she’s being watched,” Trey said.  
We sat quietly some more until I said, “Let’s go. All we can do here is let them spot us. We’ll spend some time Sunday getting everything ready like we talked about. Guillermo will have to do something Monday. Everything is in place to get him to mess up. That was the plan, you know. We just have to amp up the stress. Keep your phone handy in case Annarella calls or anything.”  
Half a minute before Trey grunted, “Maybe,” but he didn’t move to start the car. Ten minutes later Trey’s phone chimed that a text was received. He read it, responded back and forth, eventually handed the phone to me and started the car. I scrolled up and read the back and forth.  
From Annarella, it read, “Are you okay? I’m scared for you. Did you see Emilio? He and I think 3 more were going to look for you.”  
Trey had typed, “I’m okay. How are you? Ricardo scared yyou? Hurt you any?”  
She had responded, “Thank God. I was afraid for you. R came in as we were texting, almost caught me. With phone i mean. Ricardo will not hurt me, really. Couple slaps was all, but took my phone and keeping me here.”  
Her next text was before Trey had replied. “Ricardo was acting crazy. Ranting. I dont thnk he does any drugs except pot, but acting wil;d. Finally crashed, he went off and I think went to sleep. Im in bathriim with door locked.”  
Trey sent, “Are you in danger? I will get you if you are.”  
Annarelle had responded quickly, “NO! Im fine, R asleep will be normal when he wakes up.”  
He asked, “Can you go home Sunday? To the studio Monday?”  
“Maybe not home Sunday. Pretty sure Monday okay, he understands Im working. Will try to send you text some tmrrw. Dont worry. Glad you safe and missed E. Love you.”  
That was when Trey started the car and handed me the phone.  
   
Chapter 17

Monday at twenty after eight in the morning, Annarella walked into the rented studio we were using, behind a pair of big sunglasses. Trey had been waiting forty minutes, ever since walking out of the meeting in a back room where Madison had wound him up.  
As the argument had gotten heated, Trey had said, “Anna isn’t your enemy. Guillermo is who we want.”  
Madison had said, “Have you forgotten who Ahn-nah is? Who her family is? Her father is one of the four biggest drug lords in the western hemisphere. Her father is responsible directly or indirectly for tens of thousands of murders and deaths and hundreds of thousands or millions of drug addicts. Guillermo is doing what her father wants. And he’s targeted the only family I have just to launder his drug money and make it legal. Ahn-nah is loyal to her family and I’m loyal to mine. They just decided to run over Granddad without giving it a second thought, and would just as soon kill him, me, you, and anyone else if it’s more convenient. If you can’t remember that, you need to say so now.”

Makeup said Annarella had a bruise on her left cheek she had mostly covered. They finished covering it with pancake make-up. No one told Trey. My phone buzzed and one of the guys Boone had assigned to us said Guillermo had left his house, apparently tracing Annarella’s route.  
I nodded to Jack and said, “Plan B. Call his agent. Get Annarella and Joey going.”  
We actually thought this was the most likely scenario. Late afternoon Sunday, Guillermo acted like nothing had happened except Annarella being over for a picnic. I was seriously thinking he was bi-polar, but she was sent home with two of his men driving her – and staying on guard duty until almost six o’clock this morning.  
Annarella called Trey last night and they were on the phone almost an hour. Guillermo had been in a jovial mood, helped gather up her possessions including the phone and purse he had taken away on Friday night, and talked about the near-future as if Annarella hadn’t said anything about her acting job or ceasing the La Ropa work.  
Guillermo could have continued to hold Annarella under “house arrest,” or could have done nothing at all, just let her go. He could also have physically assaulted her, or taken her out of Miami, or come with her to the studio. We had laid out an outline for each of the alternatives.  
In the back room, Meyer and I each had an earpiece and were listening to the feed from various sources. From the dressing room where Annarella left her street clothes, one of the specialists said, “Definitely a bug in her purse. I’m pretty sure we can pin down the frequency and follow it ourselves. They’ll never know.”  
We had a monitor with a feed from the cameras where Trey and Annarella were beginning to do the scenes that were supposed to finish the first episode. Trey had spent the last twenty minutes holding Annarella and listening to the same stories he’d heard the night before by telephone. I muted the audio so we could listen to what was going on in the lobby.  
Two cars pulled up. Emilio and his buddies got out of the second car but stood outside, one with a bandage on his nose and another with bandages all over his face. Sweeping inside with three other toadies behind him, Guillermo stopped short, surprised by the receptionist and a message board that said “Hello Ricardo Guillermo.”  
“Hello, Mr. Guillermo. I’ll let Mr. Holden know you’re here, if you’d like to take a seat it should be just a moment.”  
Clearly startled, Guillermo showed no interest in sitting but didn’t seem to know what to say. We heard his cell phone ring, him answer it, and one side of a conversation with his agent. Jack’s casting manager had called the agent and asked if he could send Ricardo Guillermo for a screen test. Jack walked into the lobby about twenty seconds after the call finished.  
He said, “Mr. Guillermo? Thank you for coming so quickly, I didn’t expect you so soon but I’m impressed. Please come in, I’ll explain what we’re casting for. I’m sorry, are these gentlemen with you?”  
Guillermo said, “Yes, they’re associates of mine.”  
Jack said, “I suppose they are welcome to wait, but this may take some time. I was wanting to run a couple of brief scenes to get some tape and maybe see how you fit with a couple of the cast….”  
Guillermo turned to them and said, “Its fine. Why don’t you and the others go have breakfast and be back in…” he raised an eyebrow at Jack, who said, “Maybe ninety minutes. Maybe two hours.”  
Guillermo nodded and the three left, saying something to Emilio and all leaving in the two cars.  
The next two-and-a-half hours had the two studios both working. Jack fed Guillermo the story about looking for a fiftyish-year old patriarch-type, and Guillermo being the first of three candidates Jack thought had the right look. The goons returned, looked into the lobby, returned to the cars and loitered around, bored silly.  
Jack had Guillermo running the same forty second scenes time and again, increasingly coaching him to try it one way or another, conveying the impression the acting was falling short of expectations. He was beginning to sweat and turning in uneven and choppy performances. I wondered again about his mental or emotional stability.  
One of Jack’s assistants came in and murmured in his ear.  
Jack said, “Okay, we’ve got some tape, thank you for sticking with it and giving us all the different looks. We’re going to slip into another studio and watch the male and female leads while they’re doing sound stage scenes. The role you would have is being the older generation, almost like a grandfather, and having some conflict with the younger generation’s choice of love interest. This would be an ongoing story line.”  
The lights on the set kept anyone behind them in the dark. Trey and Annarella never knew when Jack and Guillermo were on the set, and the assistant director had his cue to start the big love scene. Dialogue had been written to try to get a reaction from Guillermo.

Joey: Why does everyone treat you like a dimwitted child?  
Esme: Don’t. Joey. I need to respect the old ones.  
Joey: They don’t respect you! They treat you like you’re stupid and six years old. All they want you for is decoration, like a pretty painting. But you’re supposed to be as mute as a painting. You’re not even a real person to them.  
Esme: Joey, don’t. I know. I know.  
Joey: Then stop it! Manuel is an animal. Leave it all behind and come with me.  
Esme: Joey…I love you. I want to go with you, but I have responsibilities…  
Joey pulls Esme to him for a passionate kiss.

The assistant director had them run one version or another five times, telling them to show the chemistry between them everyone had seen the last two weeks. The kisses got steamier; Guillermo started shifting around, agitated.  
Calling a halt, Jack said, “That was good. You guys look almost as good on camera as you do in real life. Joey, we have some things to do where you aren’t in them, but Wardrobe needs you for some things. Annarella, look at these lines Tracy is giving you and we’re going to try a run through in a minute.”  
Jack used the pause to let Annarella get just a quick read while Trey left. He said, “Okay, we’re testing for the part of Manuel here. I’d like to see how the two of you do together.”   
Guillermo walked in front of the lights and said, “Hello, Annarella,” in about as nasty and threatening voice as I’d ever heard, contrasting with normal surroundings.  
Annarella went white and sagged, using a hand on a table for support. “Ricardo. What are you doing here?”  
Jack looked at both and said, “You two know each other? Maybe that will help with the realism. Places and action whenever you’re ready.”  
Guillermo, as Manuel, said, “Well, Esme, you’ve been acting out. I don’t think I approve. You are going to stop your silly ideas of being on your own and any kind of relationship you think you have with this gringo is over.”  
Annarella’s line was, “You can’t dictate to me like that. You aren’t my father or husband, and even if you were I’m able to decide for myself.”  
The scene continued in that vein, with both beginning to ad lib a little since they didn’t have the lines down yet. Madison had deliberately made it fairly long so they would probably have to improvise.  
Jack yelled, “Cut! Take it from the top again. Make me believe it!”  
I had believed it the first time. The stress between them was practically vibrating the camera.  
The sixth time, Jack yelled, “Cut! Do it again! You’re both holding back. Ricardo, if you can’t convince me for real, you’re out. I’ll get someone who can actually act. Annarella is fabulous, she’s ten times the actor you’re showing. Act like a man instead of some little pimp.”  
Trey, standing beside me watching on our monitor, was already about to bolt to Annarella’s aid. When he heard Jack’s little speech, he jumped and started to turn for the door. I had written the line for Jack and made sure no one told Trey.  
Madison grabbed Trey’s arm, holding him and saying, “Wait. You can’t bust in on it. If Guillermo cracks we’ll have it on tape and Anna can use it to get away from him.”  
It stopped Trey in his tracks. He looked at Madison and said, “How? And you hate Anna.”  
Madison said, “If Guillermo tells her she’s stupid and tries to act like she’s a child, her mother and hopefully her father will turn against him.” She took a deep breath and said, “I don’t hate her. I don’t like her much, but I feel a little sorry for her. I’ve always been encouraged by everybody, and I wonder what I would be like if I’d been treated like she has.”  
Trey was still looking at her, but not trying to pull away. Guillermo and Annarella were increasingly loud and in each other’s space, going totally off the script. I was trying to watch and listen to both couples at once. There was so much going on, the warning over the ear bud didn’t register.  
Madison was still looking at Trey, deflated a little, and said, “And I’m jealous of her, the way you act with her. I want you to act that way with me. So just wait and let’s see if Guillermo cracks.”  
It was a very, very, short wait. Before Trey and Madison turned back to the monitor, Guillermo snapped. The verbal exchange had escalated while I was watching the action in this room.  
Annarella practically yelled, “You can’t boss me! I’m not your toy or dog or one of your thugs! I told you, I’m not wearing your clothes and acting like a whore any longer.”  
Guillermo’s complexion had turned red and screamed, “You WILL do as I tell you. You aren’t smart enough to be a dog of mine, my dogs are trained and do as they’re told. You can’t even do that. All you’re good for is acting like a whore.”  
“I’m done! You think you can kidnap me and hit me and make me wear what you want and treat me any way you want. I’m on my own and you don’t own me.” Annarella had put a small table between them, unconsciously, I think.  
Guillermo yelled, “On your own? Without your father’s money or me giving you a job for La Ropa, the only thing you could do would be a cheap whore on the street. And without me, your father wouldn’t have anything to give you, he’d just have some pesos from selling to peasants who don’t have twenty cents of American money to buy his dope. I’m going to teach you to respect me. JORDIE!”  
That was when I realized his three flunkies had heard Guillermo screaming a few minutes ago, all the way out in the lobby, and had pushed past reception and onto the set. They had been standing near the door, watching the screaming match with Jack and everyone else.  
Annarella realized Guillermo intended for her to be taken away, probably back to his walled house, a repeat of the weekend. He looked like he was reversing his polarity and losing his grip.  
Annarella yelled, “NO! I’m not going. I’m done with you.”  
Guillermo’s open-handed slap was so fast it was easy to miss on video. Annarella fell across an upholstered chair on the set. He was on her in a second, grabbing her hair to lift her, still dazed and almost limp. Jack and a cameraman started for them and were rushed by the three flunkies. It turned into a tussle, four of our people versus the three of them, ending when two of the bodyguards pulled out handguns.  
I had considered the possibility of Guillermo assaulting Annarella, but thought it unlikely with people watching. Having four men in the room was insurance in case it devolved to violence, but I’d thought “no way we’re lucky enough for Guillermo to self-destruct on camera.” Instead, Guillermo smacked her at least a half-dozen times with an open hand and a fist to the stomach.  
Trey was yards ahead of me, bursting through a set of double doors and coming face-to-face with Guillermo, who had Annarella by the hair in one hand and what looked like a pocket pistol, likely a .380, in the other. He pointed it at Trey’s head who stopped for the second it took me to grab him and pull him back. Another second and he would have tried rushing Guillermo and probably been shot in the face.  
Guillermo snarled, “I should kill you.”  
Annarella yelled, “NO!” and jerked enough to cause him to have to give her his full attention. The other three caught up and hustled Annarella down the hall, through the lobby, and outside into the car.  
Trey was cursing, he had left his S&W in the changing room. He poked his head out the front door and I heard Emilio yell, “Hey, Stupid. I kill you now.”  
His shot left a hole in the other glass door, two feet from Trey. The two cars peeled out and getting Trey to calm down enough to do something useful was the tough part.  
I finally grabbed him by the lapels and yelled, “Shut up a minute. We’ve got a guy following them. We need to make sure everyone here is okay, then get all the equipment we might need. Annarella will be okay, he isn’t going to hurt her badly, but he’ll kill you or me if we do something stupid. Snap out of it, we have a plan for this, remember?”  
   
Chapter 18

We ran back inside, Trey headed to the dressing room. I yelled, “Change clothes, we have time. Cutter is following them and there’s a bug sewn into the costume Annarella has on. I have to get some things.”  
Boone had sent us three men he used regularly for investigations. The leader of the three was Cutter, which I never knew if that was his given name or surname. He was a retired police detective, and he had one helper who was good with electronics. The other was kind of a utility infielder. He did record searches, worked the stakeout of Guillermo, and generally whatever Cutter dreamed up that was useful.  
I had a radio that looked like a cell phone, but was encrypted and didn’t use the cell towers. In the dash to try to intercept Guillermo in the hallway I’d lost my earbud. Meyer was back in the room, after having gone outside fruitlessly watching the two car convoy disappear.  
I said, “I lost the earpiece and I don’t remember how to get the fool thing to work without it. What a mess, I never expected Guillermo would beat the hell out of her in front of an audience, especially Trey.”  
Meyer bent and picked up the flesh colored earbud off the beige carpet and handed it to me, saying, “Cutter is following them, says they’re driving crazy and going to be lucky to not get in a wreck. He thinks they’re headed back to Guillermo’s.”  
Before we dashed to the parking lot and small van I was using, I took time to see Jack. “Did you get the video?”  
He said, “Everything we need. Give me twenty minutes and it will be edited and ready. We can transmit it to Annarella’s phone and even send it on from her phone if she can’t do it herself.”  
I said, “Okay, don’t unless we have to. We need to get her away from Guillermo first. We want her to send it. And if she takes some selfies with a black eye it might help.”

Two hours later, Trey and I were in the van parked at the same spot as Saturday night. Afternoon traffic a couple of blocks away was a mess, but this was a quiet backwater of upper end private houses. So far the private security contract guards for the neighborhood hadn’t shown any interest.  
Cutter came on the radio and asked, “Now what? Trey’s buddy Emilio and his jerks are still making the rounds now and then and have some automatic weapons visible. I haven’t seen the girl since they drug her inside. Looked like she had been smacked around a little more in the car.”  
I said, “You have any bright ideas?”  
Cutter said, “Not hardly. I like Boone, but trying to kidnap back a girl who may or may not have been already kidnapped, and who may or may not want to be rescued, while we’re getting shot at by assault rifles, is more than I like Boone. Call the cops?”  
“No. What are we going to say? And can they get a warrant? Even if they do, is it going to get Annarella away and not get her hurt any more than she is? I don’t know, and it will probably blow the whole purpose of what we’ve done.” I was stumped.  
About five minutes later, Cutter said, “Something’s happening. All the goofball guards are getting together and hanging out near the front gate. There’s a Mercedes sedan, a big one, pulling up at the patio entrance.”  
I asked, “Look like they’re getting ready to roll out? Any sign of the girl?”  
Thirty seconds before Cutter said, “I think I see her through one of the windows. First floor, back corner on my side, near the patio doors. I think that’s a breakfast room or part of the kitchen or something.”  
Trey was setting up alert now, and so was I. We were exposed if they drove out this way. I should have spent the last couple of hours figuring out what to do in this situation. Following them seemed more reasonable than trying to ram a departing car that could be filled with armed men. But not being noticed would be good. Come on, McGee, time to get your head out of your butt and act like you have a clue.  
Before being able to tell Trey to start the van, Cutter came back on and said, “Something’s not right. I’m wondering if they’ve made you. I’m way off and using a forty power scope, but you guys could be a target. Wait, there’s movement…”  
I said, “Trey, start the . . .” and Cutter yelled on the radio, “Watch out! Truck behind you!”   
Trey already had his hand on the ignition and reacted incredibly fast, or we would have been traffic statistics. A red Ford F-450 with a flatbed was coming up behind us way too quick to be an accident. It looked like they intended to slam into us and push us across the sidewalk into the wall running around the house next to our parking spot.  
Gunning it and trying to take off threw off the impact point, and we were hit on the back driver’s quarter panel. Thrown around, the seat belt prevented me from being smashed into the side window, and I got to watch the scenery spin by as we did a three-sixty and wound up behind the Ford, which was sliding to a stop.  
The driver and a passenger popped out, the former looking like he was digging for a handgun, the latter holding a shotgun he was busy pointing at us. Trey floored it and aimed right for shotgun man. One shot turned the windshield into a crackle finish, like on an old antique painted armoire my grandmother had in an upstairs bedroom. The body, tossed over the short hood, helped enlarge the cracks.  
Trey was driving blind, but slammed on his brakes, decelerating from the thirty mph we had achieved. The windshield went back to translucent crackle as the body was tossed forward and rolled over and off before coming to rest in the middle of the street.  
I heard sounds like really loud raindrops on a tin roof; the driver was shooting and punching holes in the back door of the van. I hunched down in the seat for a little extra protection, but Trey was looking at the rear view mirror as he hit reverse and floored it, swerving like crazy man, trying to drive backwards and run over the gunman.  
He missed, and the guy went past the driver-side windows and was back in front of us. Trey slammed on the brakes again, opened his door, and stepped out. Driver doofus must have emptied a magazine at us and was trying to reload. It was like the Wild West, Trey in boots but no hat, swept back his jacket and drew the S&W .40 as doofus worked the slide on his gun and tried to bring it up to shoot Trey.  
Trey’s draw was smooth, stepping into the Weaver stance, left hand wrapped around the front of the grip pulling against the right hand, slightly stooped over as he fired three shots.  
The driver’s gun went off, but the shot went into the street a few feet in front of him as he dropped to both knees, then over on one side. I ran over and picked up the pistol, cleared it, and tossed the loose bullets and magazine into our van and the pistol into the Ford flatbed.  
The driver was groaning and on his side in a fetal position. It looked like he had been hit in the stomach or just above, and the right shoulder. I don’t have much sympathy for people who have tried to kill me.  
The passenger was sprawled in the street, unconscious. Judging from the blood, I suspected numerous injuries and some internally broken body parts. Too bad he was still alive. The shotgun was battered, a 20-guage with number five shot. I cleared it and tossed in the flatbed, too.  
Meyer was yelling over the radio when I managed to get the earpiece back on, and I answered, telling him we were okay. Cutter broke in and said, “They took the girl on the boat. I think the car wreck was supposed to keep you two occupied if not actually kill you. They’ve been gone almost ten minutes. What do you want to do?”

Before we were at the end of the block I knew we were going to be way behind the 67’ Hatteras motor yacht that had left the dock. Cutter said Guillermo, Annarella, Emilio, and two other men had gone on board and the boat was working through the canals, almost into the bay by now.  
It sounded like the metal body of our van was being beaten by a huge belt, which it almost was. The metal quarter panel was pushed in on the rear wheel, and the tire had burst, unraveling and dragging the rubber and steel belts. Every revolution of the wheel caused the flopping rubber to beat against the body of the van.  
I called on the radio, “Meyer, can you get to the boat and load it? You’ll probably be way ahead of us. This van is beat to pieces. We can catch up if we have any idea where they’re headed.”  
Meyer said, “How do we figure out where they’re going? The bug on Annarella’s clothes doesn’t have much range… Wait, it doesn’t show her moving. She must have changed clothes.”  
I said, “Yeah, that’s the question. Just get the boat ready.”  
Trey said, “We need a helicopter instead of a boat.”  
Yeah, but we didn’t have a helicopter on the spur of the moment. But it made me think maybe I could scrounge up a pilot real quick and scrolled through my phone, dialing the Mick, getting him on the third ring.  
“Mick, Travis. I need some help in a hurry. How quick can you get a plane in the air?”  
The Mick was past seventy now, but still flew regularly as a contractor for a couple of aerial delivery services, did some aerial photography, or other contract jobs that interested him, which meant if the job paid for the fuel and he could be in the air. Sitting in a rocking chair was not his thing.  
Mick said, “Travis, I haven’t heard from you in months and you can’t even start with hello?”  
I said, “Later, this is an emergency, life or death.”  
I hoped not, but it had the feel.  
Mick sighed and said, “When isn’t it with you? What do you need?”  
I said, “I need help finding a boat that left a private dock in Miami about fifteen minutes ago. There’s a kidnapped girl on board.”  
“McGee, you know you’re asking me to find a boat? In Florida? Have you gone senile?”  
The Mick was exasperated, but I knew he could do it.  
“Mick, I’ve got a Donzi where I can catch up, but I need to know where to go. It’s going be dusk in an hour-and-a-half. Get me a location quick. White sixty-seven foot Hatteras. I’ll text you a photo in a minute. How quick can you get over Biscayne?”  
Mick said, “I’m about ten minutes from the airport. I’ve got one of my granddaughters, Brittany, with me. She says she wants to go and be a spotter. The Aeronca Champ is fueled, I can be up in thirty minutes, then flight time to Miami. Even if I push it, we aren’t going to have but thirty minutes to an hour of daylight. Where do you think they might be going? If they are heading north it would help. Bahamas? Keys? I need something, we’re playing long odds.”  
I said, “I understand, hold one.” I flipped to the radio and yelled, “Cutter. I’ve got an airplane coming to look for them, but we need to know where to start. Can you tell which direction they’re headed?”  
Cutter said, “I’m at the end of the bridge. Looks like they intend to head south. If they were headed to Nassau I think they would be a little more easterly. My best guess is the Keys, but don’t hold me to that.”  
I told Mick, “Try south first. Our guess is they’re going down the Keys. If they are, maybe they’re headed to Key West. It would make sense to re-fuel there if they’re going to make an open water hop. Try that first.”   
Mick said, “Okay, we’re pulling up to the hanger now. We’ll try you by cell phone or radio if you have anything you can pick us up on.”

It was about six miles by city streets to where we had a rented Donzi 38ZR. Once on the water, we’d have three or four times the speed of Sunsetter, the Hatteras. Maybe more, the Donzi had staggered Mercury 525’s. I didn’t really know how fast it would go and didn’t want to be on it when someone found out.  
But our van, beaten up and with one shredded tire, was fighting early rush hour traffic. We were going to be a long time getting anywhere.  
I called Meyer again, asking, “Can you get the boat to the bridge over the Little River where Biscayne Boulevard crosses it? We’ll be there in a couple minutes and you’ll have to pick us up, no way that we can get to you in time.”  
We beat Meyer there. Trey slid the van into a parking lot for a commercial building next to the river. Cutter’s guy was calling a tow company to get it. A chain-link fence cut us off from the bank of the river. We ran across lanes of slow, almost-stalled traffic and looked for a way down to the water. Lord, couldn’t anything be easy? I saw the cobalt blue Donzi falling off the plane as Meyer throttled down.  
Trey yelled, “Screw it. Jump!”  
He went in feet first, ankles crossed. I hate young guys who act like the stupid things they do don’t even hurt. We could get to unrestricted shoreline on the other side of the bridge, but it would take an extra two minutes. When I impacted the water, it really hurt.  
Meyer had the ladder over the side, we climbed up, and he turned the boat around on a dime and we started bouncing around the cramped cockpit. Trey had one of the duffels already open and tossed me a change of clothes. As we shot out of the canal-and-river system, he was pulling on swim trunks, a tight fitting dive tee shirt, hoodie, and surf shoes.  
I had bruises already from getting bounced around by the time I was re-dressed and settled in beside Meyer, who yelled, “We’re turning the point in a minute, you work the throttles.”  
The Hatteras had way over an hour lead by the time we settled on a southern heading and I discovered my phone still actually worked. Bless the heart of the people who made the cover that claimed to be waterproof for people like me who tend to dunk a phone now and then. I tried Mick’s number and got nothing the first two times, but the phone rang with a return call, Brittany instead of Mick.  
Brittany said, “Mr. McGee? This is Brittany. We’re within sight of Biscayne Bay, Grandpa asked if you have anything new?”  
I said no, she said, they would call back, and I told them where we were, in a blue Donzi speedboat. Very few minutes later the little rag-wing Champ overflew us at a thousand feet and wiggled its wings, leading us southward, the sun two diameters from the horizon.  
We pounded on through relatively calm waters, but the sun was touching the horizon when the phone rang finally and Brittany could be heard through the static. “..Gee? McGee? Can you … ee?”  
I said, “Brittany, bad connection! I can barely hear you!”  
It was dead and I couldn’t get a response when I dialed back. I throttled up and, a minute later the phone rang again, this time with a halfway decent connection. I chopped the engines to idle to hear.  
“Mr. McGee! We saw it! I can see you and it both if we were turned right. You’re ten or twelve miles back. Granddad says keep on your course another six or seven miles, then bear west twenty to thirty degrees and you should catch up quick.”  
With the Donzi, a ten mile difference was eaten up in fifteen minutes. The white Hatteras turned from a speck to being able to make out the boat being driven hard. Not on the edge of the maximum performance, but pushing right along. Trey dug around in the duffels and pulled on a ski vest, then an inflatable vest with a strobe on it.  
I checked to our right and yelled over the engines and wind, “Meyer, looks like they’re awful close inshore. There’s some really shallow spots all the way down the Keys. We’re off Key Largo, what do you think they’re doing? Going to try to duck under a bridge and get to the Gulf side with that thing?”  
Meyer just shook his head and yelled, “Don’t know. Cutter didn’t say anything about Guillermo being much of a sailor, more like he had the boat just for the right image. Cutter had found he went to Key West a couple times, but no record of anything else, just a few short day cruises was all anybody said they knew about.”  
I yelled, “If they don’t watch it they’ll rip the bottom out. Whoever is piloting better know what he’s doing.”  
At five hundred yards, we could see a man looking back at us, disappear into the salon from the aft covered area that had seating and a table, then reappear with binoculars, an AK-47, and Emilio. Trey opened the case and pulled out the Browning Lever Rifle, extra magazine, and box of cartridges in .308 Winchester.  
I told Meyer, “Let me have the wheel and throttles, you help Trey.”  
At two hundred and fifty yards, the guy with the AK-47 shot at us, not coming close to hitting anything. It settled any questions, and Trey chambered a round in the BLR. With us bouncing around more than the yacht, I had low expectations of Trey hitting anything, but I didn’t want stray shots going no telling where.  
I said, “I’m going to swing to the left, then cut left to right close to their stern and slow way down for you to get a shot. Try to know where your shots are going.”  
Trey said, “I can’t board with the guy shooting at us. If we get the chance, put us alongside where I can get on board without being shot at.”  
I waved in response because of throttling up and starting my move from about two hundred yards.  
Trey was kneeling in the left corner of the cockpit, preparing for a shot. There were three rounds in the magazine and he had cocked the rifle, stuffing one up the snout then popping out the magazine and letting Meyer add another round before slapping it back in the rifle and yelling, “Okay, let’s go.”  
I cut the wheel hard back to starboard and goosed it even more. Some shots hit the boat, but nothing close to me, and I hoped not close to Meyer or Trey. The Donzi sliced within ten yards of their stern, we got a hammering of shots into the boat, and the guy with the AK slid into Trey’s view.   
The .308 started firing as I chopped the power and we flattened out, bouncing in the wake of the yacht. Four shots, Meyer was trading magazines with Trey, and I saw the flunkie slide down into the rear cockpit, AK-47 dropping out of his hands, balancing for seconds on the gunwale before dropping into the ocean.  
Emilio ducked back into the salon, the gap between us was widening, and I hit the gas and turned hard up the yachts starboard side. Trey handed the rifle to Meyer, had one foot on the gunwale, and I turned into the side of the yacht. The screech of ruined paint jobs stayed with us for the long seconds it took Trey, in three attempts at hopping up, to grab the railing of the Hatteras and pull himself up.   
I cut away, did a two-seventy to take up position astern again, and Meyer was trying to steady the rifle on the foredeck if he had to shoot.

Trey MacLeod  
No one was in sight as I swung over the railing, which was a good thing because I was totally defenseless. Travis swung the speedboat away from the boat I’d just boarded and I was on my own. I unholstered the S&W .40 and decided on the starboard door ahead of me.  
It opened into a short hallway, or passageway, or whatever I was supposed to call it. The bridge was to my right, with a guy at the wheel who looked at me when I opened the door. Seeing the pistol in my hand, he raised his hands and backed up out of sight.  
I turned left, or aft, and two steps took me into the salon. Annarella was sitting on a couch, face bruised and eyes almost swollen shut. Emilio was by the door leading to the aft cockpit, looking out at the Donzi and snapping around as I came in, surprise all over his face.  
Guillermo was in an anchored swivel chair, an amber-colored drink in one hand slopping over as he moved slightly. He looked almost comatose.  
Anna said, “Joey! Be careful.”  
I almost couldn’t understand her because of the swollen lips.  
I said, “Everybody relax and don’t do anything stupid. I’m here to take Annarella home.”  
No one said anything, which surprised me. I pulled the life vest over my head and tossed it in Anna’s lap.  
“Put that on, Anna.”  
She started to struggle into the vest, moving stiffly. Emilio was still at the rear door, keeping his distance from me.  
I said, “Hey, stupid, do you have a gun or any kind of weapon?”  
Emilio said, “Pistolia.”  
I said, “Take it out reeeaaallll slow with two fingers. If you don’t, I’ll drop you where you are. Keep it in my sight, go out that door, and toss it over, all with two fingers.”  
He seemed to believe me and did just what I directed, then moved back inside next to Guillermo.  
“Okay, Anna, got it on good?”  
She nodded and I barely heard, “Yes.”  
I asked, “How well do you swim?”  
Anna said, “Okay, in a pool. Not good enough to be in the ocean at night.”  
She was right, a quick glance out the window behind her showed deepening dusk. There was still a little red in the sky out the windows behind me, to the west.  
Guillermo stirred, slopping some of his drink on himself and the floor as he took a swallow. “Thhhhaat’s kidddnapping, she don wanna go. Annarella stays wifff me.”  
Anna said, “I’m leaving with Joey. You hit me and held me prisoner, like you have lots of times. You’re the kidnapper. I’m leaving if I have to swim.”  
Guillermo yelled and tried to get out of the chair, “YOU DO I SAY! YO SOY JEFE!”  
He fell back into the seat, mumbling to himself.  
I asked, “What’s with him? Is he drunk?”  
Emilio said, “No. He took his medicine.”  
Anna said, “He has wild swings. The doctor has him on medication, but he doesn’t take it all the time. Says he doesn’t need it but sometimes. He doesn’t like it because it does this to him sometimes. More when he hasn’t had it in a while or if he was on a wild emotional swing. Drinking makes it worse.”  
I said, “Okay, we’re leaving. Don’t try to stop us. Hey, stupid, when El Jefe sobers up, tell him Anna doesn’t want anything to do with him. He needs to pull in his horns. If he gives her any more trouble, he’ll answer to me. Better yet, tell him to never try to contact her again. And being El Jefe isn’t going to help him. Anna, stand up and move to the door.”  
Guillermo screamed, just a sound, no words in it, “NNNNGGGHHHHAAAUU”  
No attempt to get out of the chair.  
Anna was at the door, and I said, “Anna, hit that thing you see hanging there on the chest.”  
She did, and the CO2 cartridge inflated the vest.  
“Okay, you have a little strobe light on the shoulder there. Turn it on.” She did and it started blinking. “Okay, wave to the boat behind us and make sure they see you. I’m going to tell the guy on the bridge to cut the engines to slow, and you stand up on the side and jump in when we slow down. The boat is going to pick you up. You won’t be in the water two minutes, okay? I know it’s scary, but be brave and I’ll take you home, okay?”  
Anna said, “Okay. I’m not scared, much. Thank you for getting me away from Ricardo. I love you.”  
She moved outside and waved, getting three blinks of the running lights back and stepped up on the bench seat on the starboard side, holding onto the supporting structure for the top deck.  
I told Emilio and Guillermo, “Be cool and we’re out of your life in thirty seconds. Just stay where you are.”  
I moved back up the little passageway until I couldn’t see them anymore, and yelled, “Hey, you on the bridge. Move where I can see you. Everything is cool, I just want you to cut power back just to where you have steerage, okay?”  
The guy just barely poked his head out where I could see it, and said, “Que?”  
I said, “Cut the crap, you understood me. Cut power now or I’ll come do it.”  
His face disappeared, the yacht started slowing, I heard somebody moving around in the salon, and I stepped out the starboard door I’d entered by.  
I could see Anna’s legs and yelled, “Jump! They’ll pick you up.” as I was trying to snap the strap over my pistol I had holstered. Anna jumped a half-second ahead of Emilio lunging for her, leaving him hanging half over the rail himself.  
I saw her clear the yacht, strobe light blinking and falling astern quickly. The lights of houses over on whatever Key seemed a lot closer than I thought they should be as I stepped up on the rail.  
Emilio turned toward me, looked right into my eyes, and yelled, “Hey, stupid, I kill you this time.” He brought up the shotgun, fired, and I fell over the side.

Travis McGee  
Meyer had Annarella in the spotlight as she jumped and followed her into the water with the light, then jerked it back as we both saw someone lunge at her. Meyer focused on Emilio holding a long gun just as he fired. We saw a shape tumbling over the side up ahead, close to where we exchanged paint scrapes and Trey had jumped for the railing.  
Meyer yelled, “I think he shot Trey.” and played the spotlight around trying to find him in the quickly darkening ocean. I throttled way back as we were within a few yards of the strobe light blinking, I couldn’t really see the girl it was attached to.  
I said, “Quick, get Annarella on board, then we’ll find Joey.”  
It took all my attention for a few minutes so I didn’t hit Annarella with the boat. She swam a few strokes and Meyer hauled her up the little ladder.  
She scrambled over the dashboard console onto the foredeck, yelling, “JOEY! JOEY! JOOOOOOOOEEEEEEEEYYYYYY!”  
By the time we hauled her back into the cockpit she was sobbing hysterically. The Hatteras had gotten back up to maybe half the speed she had been making and made a left hand circle, coming around right at us as we searched. Stupid, we had about ten times the nimbleness and I goosed it to scoot out of the way. The idiots tried it again and Meyer put a shot with the BLR through a window on the bridge.   
The fools tried it again, and I teased them by not speeding up much as I lead them westward. Sundowner shuddered as they ran over a sandbar. Shame, a rocky bottom and they would have put a hole in her. They got the message and puttered off south-southwest, standing out from shore a little more.  
We gave it up six hours after sunrise, low on fuel and Annarella collapsed in a heap on the duffel bags. We were sunbaked, tired, hungry, thirsty, and Annarella needed a doctor’s office. Six other boats had joined the search off Tavernier and Kalteux Key, but they gave up one by one as each decided that if there was a body, it would wash up on one of the beaches or against the mangroves.  
   
Chapter 19

The wine glass extended my way was held in a drowsy hand. “I never cared for lobster before, I only had tried it boiled. It tasted like cold buttered popcorn. Broiled, it’s really good.”  
I emptied the bottle of Yellow Tail chardonnay Cindy liked and I didn’t care for into her glass. I was sticking with the Boodles over ice, the one drink a day I was allowing myself.  
“Glad you approve of my culinary abilities, Ms. Fairfield. Are you going to sleep on me?”  
Cindy said, “Could be. Pretty soon. I’m worn out. Swimming three times in one day and rolling in the hay twice is about five activities more than I’m used to in one day. So Annarella thinks Joey, or Trey, is dead?”  
I’d sent Cindy an envelope with a round trip ticket, prepaid credit card for traveling incidentals, and a note saying, “If you want to know the rest of the story so far, use the ticket.” We were anchored off Crooked Island in the Bahamas, inside the reef, our fifth day on Improbable; ironically a 63-foot Hatteras.  
Cindy turned out to be a hearty and earnest Midwesterner, a compact five feet and five inches of solid girl, or woman. Thirty-five years old, brown eyes, brown hair chopped short, long-waisted, short legs, smallish breasted. Nose with a small bend from having been broken by a parolee she had been hired to find by a father who disapproved of the daughter’s love interest, Cindy had said. Not at all the beach-and-bikini type that had so often accompanied McGee on a boat vacation.  
It had been a no-obligation vacation cruise, but quickly became the best which two people off on their own could become. Cindy had been slow to totally relax, telling me this was the first vacation she had taken since she could remember. She approached learning about how to take a nautical vacation with as much seriousness as I suspect she approached her client’s cases.  
I said, “Yes, Joey is dead. He was shot and or drowned off Plantation Key. The body was never found, and never will be. Annarella knows Meyer and me only as a couple of people Joey had hired who happened to have a fast boat. She doesn’t know our names, has no photos, and I hope a blurred memory. She mainly remembers Jack and the cast and crew with whom she was working.”  
Cindy asked, “So let me get this straight. Boone Waites funded everything, including the fake TV series, but Jack Holden is trying to get it made into a real show?”  
I said, “Yeah, he had a lot of film and put together about twelve minutes of it and thought it could actually do something, kind of like Dallas meets Gator. Boone gave Jack the rights and it looks like he’s got some people in the business that liked it. They’re re-casting for Joey’s part with a real actor, so Annarella has at least a six-episode job when they start shooting again. I saw a photo of her a week or so ago and the bruising was almost all gone.”  
Cindy finished the half-glass of Yellow Tail and was sleepy-giggly. “Whadda Anna say about where they were going on the boat?”  
I pulled Cindy to me and arranged pillows so she could stretch out. “Annarella says Guillermo was actually afraid of the water, just had the boat because that’s what rich people do in Miami. He did have all sorts of ‘issues,’ so made whoever was piloting stay close to shore. He had been having a bad series of mood swings with Annarella having snuck off, and going out on the boat made him anxious besides, so he took a whole handful of whatever prescriptions he had. They wound up going on to Key West and docking there.”  
Cindy said, “But he isn’t coming back, is he?”  
I said, “I don’t think so. Cutter was keeping a loose eye on him in Key West, Ricardo mostly stayed doped or drunk for four days. The fifth day, three Hispanic males went on board and they went for a short cruise. When it docked that afternoon, the three men weren’t on board, and neither were Ricardo or Emilio.  
Jack talked to Annarella when we got her home in Miami after stopping at an Urgent Treatment Center. She got back her purse and clothes from the studio, and Jack sent her the video of Guillermo assaulting her and asked if she wanted to use it as evidence for the police. She said no, took a few selfies of how she looked, and the clone-phone we have of it showed she sent everything to her mother, then separately to her father.”  
Cindy asked, “Daddy taking care of his little girl?”  
“Yeah, there was some back and forth. Mom seemed to exert some influence on Dad and convinced him Annarella wasn’t in danger from being in the States, she had been hurt by Guillermo. The day after Guillermo didn’t come back from the cruise, Annarella got a call from Papa that Ricardo wouldn’t be bothering her again. And she had told him Emilio killed the man she was in love with.”  
“So everything is okey-dokey in your world then, huh?” Cindy was on the edge of asleep.  
“Pretty much,” I said. “We hung around in Miami four days. I was wondering if Trey was dead. But Meyer and I got back after dark that night and lights were on aboard the DebbyK. Trey and Jean were there.”  
Cindy mumbled, “Zzzooo ‘xactly what happened to him?”  
“Trey said that he jumped when Emilio tried to shoot him. It must have been close, because he got four pieces of Number Four shot in his right arm and shoulder. He had on a polyutherane vest that took part of it, and that shirt was supposed to be high-tech to protect a diver some, but it still penetrated some.  
After hitting the water, he realized that was the perfect way to die again. If Annarella had snuck a photo or if any of the video got screwed up and the crew let some of it out, it wouldn’t matter because he would be dead again. He swam for shore and stayed quiet while we looked for him, said Sundowner came within about sixty feet of him when it went over the sandbar.  
We were three-odd miles offshore, but Trey says he’s a pretty good swimmer, and there are some little mangrove islands here and there. According to him, he only had to swim about three hundred yards and after that he could actually wade a lot of it. Not that he did, I guess. But it took him till after midnight to make it to Kalteux Key, then made a collect call to ask Jean come get him.  
His phone was kaput and he tossed his pistol when he was almost ashore. He told Jean not to call us, because we would maybe not be as convincing around Annarella if we knew he had made it. Jean picked the buckshot out of him and stitched him up.”  
Cindy wasn’t asleep after all, and asked, “So Trey and Jean getting together?”  
I said, “I’m not sure. They seem to be trying to work things out, but Madison is in the picture, too. Trey really liked Annarella, and letting her think he’s dead is a psychological hurdle he has to get over. There is definitely tension between him, Jean, and Madison. I don’t know what’s happening there.”  
Cindy got up and said, “I’m going to bed. We’ll see about another roll in the proverbial hay in the morning. Hey, hay, hey, ha, I’m hilarious. So did you get half of ever how many billions as a recovery fee?”  
I said, “It didn’t seem reasonable or feasible to do a fifty percent recovery. How would you even calculate fifty percent of what? But Boone has been very generous. He bought the Thorstein Veblen and a flat at the assisted living place both, with Meyer and Mary having a lifetime interest in them, just like they own them. And Trey now owns the DebbyK. Boone is paying for a complete overhaul of the Flush. That’s going to take six to eight months and I hope I recognize her when I get the old girl back. And he leased Improbable for me for as long as that takes, offered to buy it and give it to me. And he made hefty contributions to the ‘retirement funds’ of all three of us.”  
Cindy was stripping off and crawling in the king bed. “Two more days, Travis, and then you have to take me back to the real world,” and yawned.  
I said, “Two days? It wouldn’t have to be.”  
Cindy turned over and propped her head on a hand, looked at me hard and said, “Tempting, Mr. McGee, but it won’t work. You’re a grasshopper living where it’s always summertime. I’m the ant and need winter to remind me to keep my nose to the grindstone. And winters in Columbus can suck. Maybe keep an open berth for me now and then, in the dead of winter, but ants and grasshoppers each have their own thing.”  
She rolled over and was asleep in a minute. Inside five minutes I was, too, and slept a solid eight hours, waking just after five o’clock. I went back topside, and thought about how I appreciated the ant sharing some grasshopper time with me as I watched the sun come up over Crooked Island, the spit of land looking like a lance, light reflecting off the water like off a newly burnished breastplate. I was still breathing and ready for maybe another joust before they carted me off to the Home.

 

The End

 

Author’s Note

John D. MacDonald passed away in December, 1986, after writing best-selling novels more than thirty years. He is best known for his Travis McGee series. I believe there are twenty-one novels in the series. Avid readers of that series will recognize many of the references scattered through this piece of fan fiction.

However, Mr. MacDonald wrote many other books, some also set in Florida, some in other locales such as the Texas-Mexican border in the 1950’s or so. One novel was renamed Cape Fear and made into a movie. The story told at the New Year’s Eve party on board the Busted Flush is a mash up of the plot, and some of the characters, from The Beach Girls. It is not an exact summary; readers who want the pleasure of exploring Mr. MacDonald’s writing need to have a little mystery left for them.

The Beach Girls, and other MacDonald books, are available on Amazon at very inexpensive prices for the hours of pleasure they offer.

I also want to acknowledge the contribution by Stacey London and Love, Lust, or Run, unbeknown to them, of the idea of psychologically “attacking” Annarella by presenting photos of how she dressed to the public and soliciting comments. If you have ever seen that show, one must conclude the image a person shows the world is often driven by their psyche and often at odds with what they think they portray.

Anyone who would like to drop me a note is welcome to do so. I hope Travis McGee fans enjoyed this and feel like I didn’t butcher his golden years.

The Deep  
September 1, 2015

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note
> 
> John D. MacDonald passed away in December, 1986, after writing best-selling novels more than thirty years. He is best known for his Travis McGee series. I believe there are twenty-one novels in the series. Avid readers of that series will recognize many of the references scattered through this piece of fan fiction.
> 
> However, Mr. MacDonald wrote many other books, some also set in Florida, some in other locales such as the Texas-Mexican border in the 1950’s or so. One novel was renamed Cape Fear and made into a movie. The story told at the New Year’s Eve party on board the Busted Flush is a mash up of the plot, and some of the characters, from The Beach Girls. It is not an exact summary; readers who want the pleasure of exploring Mr. MacDonald’s writing need to have a little mystery left for them.
> 
> The Beach Girls, and other MacDonald books, are available on Amazon at very inexpensive prices for the hours of pleasure they offer.
> 
> I also want to acknowledge the contribution by Stacey London and Love, Lust, or Run, unbeknown to them, of the idea of psychologically “attacking” Annarella by presenting photos of how she dressed to the public and soliciting comments. If you have ever seen that show, one must conclude the image a person shows the world is often driven by their psyche and often at odds with what they think they portray.
> 
> Anyone who would like to drop me a note is welcome to do so. I hope Travis McGee fans enjoyed this and feel like I didn’t butcher his golden years.
> 
> Deep  
> September 1, 2015


End file.
